When I Fall
by half agony and hope
Summary: After the death of Red John, and with the Blake Association still at large, Jane and Lisbon flee to South America. Though they've left the conspiracy behind them, Lisbon soon finds their island paradise has its own complications when she begins to question the wisdom of being in a relationship with a professional conman. As always, Jane has the solution. Set after "Into the Blue."
1. Chapter 1: I Wish I Were Brave

**AN: Here it is folks: the sequel to _Into the Blue_. I'm so incredibly excited to finally share this with you all, and I can't wait to hear what you think. You don't need to have read _Into the Blue _to read this, though it may help. Basically, the premise is that ****after the season five finale ****Lisbon and Jane have an intimate conversation, and that conversation causes the storyline of season six to diverge immensely from canon. In this alternate universe, the whole team took down Red John, the Blake Association is still a threat, and Jane and Lisbon have fled the country.**

**Many of you know by now that I like to thematically tie a story together through song lyrics. For this story, I've chosen _When I Fall_ by Lizz Wright because it seems to really capture the journey I want Lisbon to take in this narrative. All chapter titles/the story title are lyrics from this song.**

**Also, thanks to all who read/reviewed _Believe_. I'm very behind on responding to reviews, but that is next on my to do list!**

* * *

Chapter 1: I Wish I Were Brave

Despite the fact that the sun was barely peaking above the ocean, the day had already dawned muggy and hot. Lisbon trudged on, her sneakers spraying sand behind her as she raced up the beach. The humidity of the South American climate nearly consumed her, making her feel as though she was swimming through the air rather than running, an effect only amplified by the sinking feeling of her feet in the sand. She breathed in deeply, and the salt of the sea overwhelmed her senses. She closed her eyes.

She could almost pretend she was at the seaside in California.

But she wasn't, of course. Five weeks ago, she'd fled California in hopes of finding safe haven in a South American paradise with nothing but a few pairs of clothes in a duffel bag and Jane at her side. Five weeks ago, Thomas McAllister had been shot and killed after being exposed as Red John, the serial killer who'd murdered Jane's wife and child. His followers, known amongst themselves as the Blake Association, remained at large.

Five weeks ago, Jane had told her he loved her.

Lisbon slowed to a jog as she neared the part of the beach that was most familiar to her. The small apartment that she now shared with Jane came into view, its pale blue paint blending in with the brightening sky. Lisbon wiped her forehead with her upper arm and pulled her earbuds out of her ears, shutting off her iPod. She sat down in the middle of the beach, turning away from the apartment to look over the water.

She'd had five weeks to get used to the idea of Jane being in love with her. And he'd certainly used every chance he had to keep reminding her of the fact. Every time he said the words, her body reacted the same—furious blush, curious eyes, and excited heart, as though in disbelief that she could be so lucky.

She'd begun to wonder if she was still going through the stereotypical honeymoon phase of a new relationship—or if she truly didn't think it was possible for Jane to love her.

The answer to that question scared her more than she cared to admit.

And so she'd felt the walls coming up around her again, and she was helpless to stop them from rising. And rise they did, brick by brick.

Though it had been five weeks since Jane had told her he loved her, she had yet to return the sentiment in words.

Lisbon redid her ponytail, gathering up the hair that had come loose during her run. Then she took off her sneakers and socks, shook them free of the sand they'd accumulated, and, barefoot, made her way up the walk to the apartment.

* * *

That afternoon, Lisbon rolled her shoulders back and tilted her head from side to side, attempting to relieve some of the stiffness building in her neck. After her efforts were rewarded with a quiet _pop_, she straightened her back and returned her attention to the piano. A humid breeze stole into the room, tickling the hairs at the base of her skull that had come loose from her ponytail. Lisbon played a chord and began to hum.

The chords and the melody had come easily soon after her and Jane's arrival on the island. They'd been walking on the beach near their apartment, Jane wandering off every so often to collect shells, and suddenly the ocean itself had seemed to sing. She'd hummed along, following its tune but at a loss for the story it was trying to convey.

Weeks later, the melody still had no story—and thus, no lyrics.

Lisbon sighed, beginning to feel frustrated with her writer's block. She heard a loud _clunk _from outside and hoped Jane hadn't managed to destroy the remnants of the garden near their front door. Half an hour earlier, he'd passed by the piano (looking very pleased with himself) with a small gardening shovel and a tray of exotic-looking flowers. Lisbon rolled her eyes and tried not to worry. No one could _break_ a garden, she told herself. Not even if that someone was Jane.

Her thoughts remained focused on him, and she wondered if he was part of the reason for her unfinished song. She was so uncertain when it came to Jane, she realized. Perhaps that uncertainty in their relationship, and the associated uncertainty with the direction she wanted it to take, mirrored her inability to find a direction for the song.

She shook her head, knowing she was being ridiculous. She and Jane had barely been together a month—it was far too early to be wondering about their future or having doubts about him.

But was it really?

A small voice in the back of her mind conceded that her worries weren't irrational, and Lisbon's fingers on the piano keys slowed. Acidic words—_her words_—echoed in her mind, and she could see Jane's injured reaction as clearly as if he were standing in front of her.

_"You use me when it's convenient then push me away when you're through with me. I don't believe that you love me—and I don't think you believe it, either."_

Suddenly, the music resonating through the apartment stopped, and Lisbon became aware that her hands had frozen on the keyboard. She began to play the first chords she could think of to stop them from trembling.

Her words, of course, had not been intended to hurt Jane—quite the opposite, in fact. She'd said them as part of a plan to trap Red John. Though later she'd apologized for what she'd said to him, she was reminded of the pain she'd inflicted on Jane every time she thought about their staged argument that night. Jane had accepted her apology, gallantly telling her there was nothing to forgive.

They hadn't acknowledged the argument since. They each had their own reasons for trying to ignore her cruel words: Lisbon because she knew the words were too hurtful to deserve to be forgiven, and Jane because he knew the words were rooted in truth.

She sighed again. They really needed to discuss this. She'd never be able to halt the construction of the walls being built around her if they didn't.

Giving up on her songwriting, Lisbon stood up from the piano bench and walked through the family room to the front door, which Jane had left open. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest, and watched as Jane dug the small shovel into the soil.

Her eyebrows rose as she took in what had once been a sorry excuse for a front garden but now resembled a miniature arboretum. Jane was in the center of it all, his back to her, literally up to his elbows in dirt. He was clad in khaki shorts and wasn't wearing shoes, and his hair had been bleached even blonder in the island sun. As she watched, he leaned back on his heels, wiped his forehead with the sleeve of one of his new island shirts, then returned to digging.

Lisbon's lips quirked into a small smile.

The smile faded as a thought occurred to her.

Upon arriving to their island paradise, one of the first things Jane had insisted on was taking Lisbon shopping. Since she'd been wearing the same three outfits during their escape from California and the Blake Association, she had acquiesced gladly and not thought anything of it. However, she now wondered where Jane's new island shirts, and wardrobe in general, had come from. After all, that day he'd only bought clothes for her—not for himself.

"Jane," Lisbon said quietly, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

"Hmmm?" he responded, still digging intently.

"You took me shopping," she said.

"Uh, yes, Lisbon," he said, sounding as though he found her comment obvious. She flushed. "You left the vast majority of your possessions in Sacramento."

Lisbon shook her head. "No," she said, then hastened to elaborate. "What I mean is…you didn't buy anything for yourself." The knot in her stomach tightened when she saw the shovel in his hand hesitate before returning to the soil.

"I ordered a few things for myself beforehand," said Jane, his tone too natural, too easy, and he seemed determined to keep his eyes on the flowers below him. "You know, to make the transition easier."

Despite the heat and humidity of the air, Lisbon felt a chill. "You prepared more than a few things," she pointed out, and more pieces fell into place. "You prearranged this apartment and nearly everything in it—the dishes, the food, the furniture." She paused, considering. "The only thing not prearranged was…me."

Jane sat back on his heels, still facing away from her.

"You were planning on leaving me again, weren't you?" she said, trying to keep her tone even. She didn't think she succeeded.

Jane didn't respond, which as good as answered her question.

"Did you always plan on running away from me after you'd killed Red John?" she asked, simultaneously needing but not wanting to know. "How long, Jane? How long ago did you plan this—how long ago did you plan on leaving me?"

Jane looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes emotionless.

"A few weeks before we killed McAllister," he said.

Lisbon pushed away from the doorframe, and her forehead wrinkled as her eyebrows rose again. "A few…a few weeks before McAllister?" she sputtered. "Around the time we…" she trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence.

"Around the time we agreed to be honest with each other?" said Jane, wiping his hands on his khakis and standing up. "Yes, Lisbon, around that time."

Lisbon pulled her arms around herself tighter, feeling like it was the only way she could keep from breaking apart. Of course he'd been lying to her from the very beginning, despite his promises to the contrary. Of course the conversation that had changed everything for her—the conversation that had _meant_ everything to her—had been a lie. Of course.

He looked unapologetic, completely non-repentant, and that was what set Lisbon over the edge.

"You _were _using me," she whispered in horror. "You used me from the beginning, when I asked you if you'd known I was in love with you. And you _continued_ to use me until the end. _You manipulated me_ _to help you get close to Red John_."

Her previous words beat a rhythm into her brain like a mantra.

_"You use me when it's convenient then push me away when you're through with me. I don't believe that you love me—and I don't think you believe it, either."_

They'd never seemed more fitting before now.

"What?" said Jane, and he sounded alarmed. Lisbon avoided his eyes, hoping he hadn't picked up on the moisture that was threatening hers. "_What?_ No! Lisbon, that's not what this was about at all!"

But she'd already turned her back, storming through the apartment and out the back door, making her way toward the beach.

* * *

He sat down beside her hours later, after the sun had sunk below the ocean—after the sand had begun to feel cool beneath her legs. She'd long since run out of tears to cry.

"Can I explain?" he said, his tone insistent but soft.

She nodded stiffly.

"My original plan was to shoot Red John," he began, "after which I would shoot myself."

Lisbon held her breath. However terrible this revelation seemed, she couldn't say it was terribly surprising.

"What changed?" she asked.

"We did," he said simply. "The day that we had that conversation in the CBI attic—the day you bandaged up my hand—I decided I couldn't do that to you. I wouldn't make you live through that."

She dug her toes further in the beach, and he grabbed a handful of sand and let it fall slowly back down, the sparkling particles falling as though in an hourglass.

"My new plan consisted of me killing Red John then running away to a non-extradition country where I couldn't be punished for his murder. I thought that would be easiest on you—I didn't want you to see me sent to jail, or even put on death row." He breathed in deeply before he continued. "I tried to warn you of that, when I told you not to wait for me."

Lisbon gave him that one. He had been upfront about not being available.

"When we started getting closer to catching him, I began to make preparations. Of course, this was before I knew about the Blake Association, so I didn't realize you'd be in more danger in the States than traveling with me. At the time, I thought I had to go alone. I knew if I asked you to come, you would—but I couldn't make you give up your friends, your job, your family—damn it, Lisbon, I couldn't make you give up your life to go on the run with me. I couldn't take your life away from you in exchange for this half-life I would be offering you here. So yes," he said, "I wasn't originally planning on having you come with me. I wanted you here more than anything, but I couldn't ask you to come. I just couldn't."

He stared at her, his eyes a steely blue, and Lisbon felt like she could breathe again. "I'd already given my life for the cause, Lisbon. I didn't want to volunteer yours as well."

Lisbon bit her lip, torn between being rational and wanting to believe him. The latter won out, and she let him gather her into his arms.

He kissed the top of her head, and she felt goosebumps erupt on his arms.

"I know you're still upset with me—this doesn't fix anything," he said.

Lisbon rested her lips on his collarbone. "What are we going to do, Jane?" she asked weakly, and another question hung in the air between them, unspoken, as so many things for them often were.

_How the hell will I ever be able to trust you, Jane?_

"I don't know," he said, and he seemed to be answering both questions. "But I promise I will think of something—we'll get through this, Lisbon. I promise. _I swear._"

She nodded against him, her nose touching his shoulder, and he pulled her up and led her back to their apartment, one arm draped around her waist.

* * *

**AN: As far as angst goes for this story, that is probably going to be the worst part. After all, Jane and Lisbon are in paradise, and to reflect this I wanted to tell a more lighthearted story.**


	2. Chapter 2: Quietly Say

**AN: Thanks for all the reviews, follows, and favorites! Your words inspire me and make me feel so honored to be a part of this incredible fandom/family. As I promised, this chapter (and the chapters that follow) will certainly be less angsty. I hope you all enjoy it!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.**

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Chapter 2: Quietly Say

Lisbon went to bed early that night, turning in well before Jane. They'd both skipped dinner, each of them being entirely too preoccupied in worrying about the other, and neither had uttered a word since their conversation on the beach.

After an hour in which sleep proved elusive, Lisbon pulled the sheets more firmly around her and shifted to turn towards the window. Normally, she'd be greeted with silver light from faraway stars, but tonight the sky was eerily black. She closed her eyes briefly, opened them again, and found she couldn't tell the difference.

Lisbon punched her pillow into a more comfortable shape and returned her head to rest upon it. She wondered with a jolt if Jane was planning on sleeping on the couch in the family room.

She didn't think she could bear it if he did.

After all, it had been nearly two months since they'd spent the night in separate beds. Though it had only been a couple of hours since she'd stormed out on him, she found that she missed him far more than she had expected. Which was silly, really, considering that they weren't actually fighting—and that he was in the next room.

Lisbon heard the unmistakable sound of a lamp being switched off, followed by the sound of Jane's quiet footsteps heading down the hall toward the bedroom.

She wiped at her eyes hurriedly.

The door opened slowly, and she knew Jane was taking extra care so as to not wake her. She felt her heart balloon in her chest, and she turned to face him.

"I missed you," she said, her voice louder than she'd intended.

She heard the rustling of clothing and pictured Jane removing his shirt and pulling on pajama bottoms in the dark. There was a loud thump as his foot connected with the bedframe, and he swore under his breath. Lisbon chuckled at the irony—the so-called psychic not able to avoid stubbing his toe—and some of the tension she'd been feeling for the better part of the day finally left her body. Jane climbed into bed, pulling the thin sheet over him.

"I love you," he said, his voice sure and strong and raspy.

She moved her hand in search of his own, but instead Jane wrapped his arms around her torso, one coming to rest against the top of her back while the other stroked her hip, and he pulled her body flush against his. She turned her head to the side and let her ear drop to his sternum.

When he felt the first drops of moisture fall upon the bare skin of his chest, he reached a hand up to brush the tears from her face. A beat later, she felt rather than heard him speak.

He delivered the words rhythmically, pausing after every line, as though he were reciting a poem. After Lisbon began to comprehend the words, she realized belatedly he wasn't reciting poetry at all—he was _singing_, or as near to singing as Patrick Jane could get. And what was more, she recognized the lyrics as the first song she'd written for him.

Lisbon kissed his bare chest and relaxed against him, letting his words lull her to sleep.

* * *

The next morning dawned extremely bright, as if the sun were trying to make up for the dismal performance of last night's stars. Lisbon opened her eyes slowly, all too aware that the opposite side of the bed was far too cold. She sat up, pulling her knees toward her chest, and the bedspread pooled around her. She glanced around the room, looking everywhere save for Jane's side of the bed.

On her nightstand was _Orgullo y Prejuicio_, the Spanish version of Jane Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_, which Jane had bought for her at a small used book store about a mile from their apartment. Though Lisbon hadn't spoken much Spanish since an introductory course in college, she was familiar enough with the novel in English to be able to work her way through the Spanish edition. She'd almost finished it, and it occurred to her that trying to find other books to read might help improve her rusty Spanish. She resolved to visit the store for herself today, and she turned her vision to the bureau which sat beyond the end of the bed, tucked up against the far wall.

The corner of her mouth rose slightly at the sight of Jane's seashell collection, but her gaze didn't linger on the shells for long. Almost immediately, she caught a glimpse of lavender and green strewn across Jane's pillow, and she finally turned her head to Jane's side of the bed.

A clump of small, funnel-shaped flowers greeted her, placed delicately on the pillow and tied together with a green ribbon. She blinked a few times to dispel the moisture she felt building in her eyes, then she rolled out of bed to get dressed.

She used the green ribbon to tie off the braid she wore in her hair that day.

* * *

Despite the heat, Lisbon shrugged on a thin, cream-colored cardigan to cover her shoulders left bare by her sundress before leaving the apartment. She'd already suffered through her share of sunburns since arriving in South America, and she had no desire for her skin to once again turn bright pink—no matter how adorable Jane seemed to find it.

She walked down the dirt road, stirring up dust and grime around her ankles as she moved, and wondered for the ninth time that day where Jane had taken off to. Though she'd been momentarily injured by his absence that morning, Lisbon understood that he wasn't running away again. This time, he'd needed distance. The pair of them were, thought Lisbon, completely different in their approaches to problem solving. She preferred to tackle issues, to confront them—to soldier on. Jane, however, needed space. He'd return, like he always did, when that brilliant mind of his had come up with an equally brilliant solution to their current dilemma.

Lisbon passed house after house, most of them covered in sun-dried adobe and ornamented with bright flowers that practically oozed fragrance. She breathed in deeply and continued on, and the dirt road curved into the town proper. The stores themselves in their adobe colors looked much as the residential buildings did with the exception of bright signs advertising—in Spanish, of course—the services each offered. Lisbon ignored most of the signs and headed straight for the small bookstore at the corner of the street, taking care to avoid the large crowds of people heading to the farmer's market for fresh produce.

Since she hadn't been with Jane when he'd first visited the store, her first glance at the small shop's interior surprised her upon opening the door, which was painted a forest green color and had begun to peel. Shelves lined the room, ensuring that no wall was left bereft of books. The tables on the inside seemed to sink under the weight of the volumes which they supported, and underneath the tables, still more books were being stored in cardboard boxes.

Lisbon began to look through the shelves, but it took her no longer than thirty seconds to determine she wasn't in the mood for more reading. Instead, she began to wonder what literature genres Jane enjoyed. She could picture him being a secret fan of romance, considering he was a not-so-secret romantic, but she figured his favorites were probably mysteries.

Lisbon bit her lip, and a quiet voice floated over to her.

"Necesitas ayuda?" _Do you need help?_

"Sí," said Lisbon gratefully, and she turned to take in the woman who had approached her. She was older, with chocolate-brown hair that had started to gray, and shorter than Lisbon. Her lips were deep red, eyebrows dark, and eyes sparkling.

"Mi…mi novio," Lisbon began helplessly, referring to the words for _my boyfriend_. She searched her brain for the correct words. "Necesito un libro para mi novio." _I need a book for my boyfriend._

Her grammar was probably atrocious, but the older woman didn't seem to mind. "Ah," she said knowingly, and Lisbon could practically see the woman cold-reading her. It was unnerving—almost as unnerving as when Jane used his abilities to read her.

The woman switched to English, and Lisbon smiled at her appreciatively. "Your boyfriend," she began, her accent heavy. "He's blond, no? Very handsome? Very charming?"

Lisbon blushed and smiled again. "Yes, that would be him," she said. "I don't know how, but there's very rarely a person he can't charm."

The woman nodded. "I gathered that when I met him, yes," she said. "He has a fierce heart as well."

"I'm not exactly sure what kinds of stories he likes to read," said Lisbon, biting her lower lip. She exhaled sharply. "Sorry, I'm not much help."

"Not a problem," said her companion. "Tu novio—I talked with him for a long while. I think I know the perfect gift for him." With that, the woman held up one finger—the universal language for _one second, please_—and headed across the room. She grabbed a chair, pulled it next to the shelf nearest the front door, and stood on it to reach the highest books. Her fingers danced over the spines and finally came to rest over a thick, brown volume that looked as though it had been read many times.

She lowered herself gingerly back to the floor, crossed the room to Lisbon, and handed her the book. The title and author's name, neither of which Lisbon recognized, were stamped in golden type down the spine.

"The writer is…" she paused, and Lisbon could see her searching for the English equivalent of a word in her head. "He is cherished in this country. This book contains his most famous poems. They are about love, in all the forms it comes in."

Lisbon ran a finger down the spine of the book gingerly then tucked it against her chest. She smiled up at the shopkeeper. "Es perfecto," she said, following the woman to the cash register and earning a smile in return.

After Lisbon had handed over a few bills, she extended her hand. "Soy Teresa," she said, introducing herself.

"Adriana," said the woman, grabbing Lisbon's hand with both of hers and shaking it warmly.

"Gracias, Adriana. Por todo." _Thank you, Adriana. For everything._

Adriana smiled, and the small bell on the door tolled as Lisbon shut it behind her.

* * *

Lisbon spent the rest of the day inside a bustling café, pouring over the book she'd bought from Adriana and trying to remember long-forgotten conjugations of Spanish verbs. It was slow-going, and after three hours and two cups of coffee she'd noticed her vision beginning to blur. But her efforts had paid off: by the time she left, she'd worked her way through the pronunciations and translations of the first ten poems, a feat only made possible with the help of the young busboy, who she frequently called over for assistance with the more difficult words.

She couldn't wait to share the poems with Jane.

Even with his limited understanding of Spanish, he'd be able to tell from her voice and her expression what the poems were conveying. And if all else failed, she could always read them aloud in English.

The sun was just beginning to sink when she approached the pale blue walls of their apartment. As she walked through the small garden in the front, she heard the faint sound of her piano. She recognized the music immediately as the song she'd been struggling with, but it was different somehow—more disjointed, as if a child were playing it. Lisbon opened the front door and walked silently to the family room.

Jane sat at the piano, his eyes squinted shut in deep concentration as he attempted to play the notes from the sheet music Lisbon had written.

She dropped the book of poems in surprise, and Jane looked over at her in response to the dull _thunk_.

"Lisbon," he said, and his hands fell on the keyboard, creating a cacophonous jumble of notes that echoed between them. Jane gestured weakly to the piano. "I…uh, I missed you," he said feebly.

Lisbon tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from her braid behind her ear. She bent down to pick up the book, then sat down on the piano bench beside him, nudging him over. She took his left hand in her right.

"I missed you, too." She ducked her head, avoiding his eyes. "I got you something," she said, and handed him the well-worn book.

She glanced up at him, long enough to see his eyes widen in astonishment, then she looked back down, concentrating on their intertwined fingers. She swore she felt his hand in hers shake as his other took the book from her.

He flipped through it and immediately understood what it was. At least, thought Lisbon, he _seemed_ to understand, if the kiss he planted just above her ear was anything to go by.

"Will you read it to me?" he said, his voice constricted.

She looked up at him from the corner of her eye. "That was sort of the plan," she said.

"Thank you, Lisbon," he said, and, letting go of her hand, he put two fingers under her chin to raise her eyes to his.

For a second, Lisbon thought he would kiss her, but he pulled her into a hug instead, the book snug between them. And for a reason she couldn't quite explain, the hug meant even more to her than a kiss would have. She threw her arms around him in response, and his hand rubbed up and down her back.

After a minute, Jane pulled back, and Lisbon took in his appearance for the first time that day. He hadn't shaved, and she couldn't deny that the blond stubble seemed to make him even more attractive than he had already been. Similarly, his curls had not been styled and were especially unruly. With the addition of his island shirt and the fact he had left two more buttons undone than she was used to seeing, it was a particularly lethal combination.

"I did a lot of thinking today," Jane said, after she'd finished roving her eyes over him and had returned to meet his gaze.

"And?"

Jane smiled wryly. And suddenly Lisbon knew everything was going to be okay—because she _knew_ that smile. It was the smile he wore when he'd come up with a plan.

"And I have a plan."

She raised her eyebrows at him, and he continued.

"Am I correct in assuming that you are upset with me not because I planned to run away, but because I lied to you?"

Lisbon nodded slowly. He had, after all, told her long ago not to wait for him: he couldn't guarantee where he would end up after they'd taken care of Red John. And she'd come to peace with that. She hadn't liked it—but she'd known that was the deal she was signing up for when she fell in love with him.

What _had_ upset her was that he'd kept his preparations a secret. Especially since they'd agreed just before he'd started making said preparations that he was going to be honest with her.

She could live with him being thousands of miles away.

She couldn't live with being just another of his marks.

"Okay," said Jane, and he smiled again. "So here's my proposition: what if you were able to tell, beyond a doubt, if I was lying to you?"

Lisbon snorted. "Bullshit. Like that will ever happen."

"It will. Because I'm going to teach you to read me."

Lisbon's eyes narrowed, and she couldn't keep the suspicious glare off her face.

"I'm not sure I understand."

"I'm going to teach you every trick I have that allows me to do cold readings. I'll teach you how to spot a lie a mile away—and I'll teach you how to determine if someone's telling the truth. Because you'll know all the tricks, anything I could use to hide something from you won't work."

Lisbon stared at him thoughtfully, beginning to comprehend the magnitude of what he was offering. In essentials, he was offering a bit of himself—a bit of his specialized knowledge that she didn't think he'd ever shared with anyone. Jane prided himself on being the smartest person in the room. But once he had trained Lisbon to read him, he would no longer be able to claim that title. He was giving up his secrets—essentially making it impossible for him to ever be able to con her again.

"What do you think?" he asked weakly.

She continued to stare at him, debating. It occurred to her that he hadn't promised to never lie to her again, and she was grateful—they both knew that was a promise he was bound to break. Instead, he had offered to give her the tools to know if he _did_ avoid the truth.

It was a tremendous gift on his part.

It was also the best gift he'd ever given her.

She smiled.

"Okay," she responded, her tone similarly feeble. "Okay."

He smiled the smile that stretched across his face and caused his eyes to squint—the smile that she hadn't seen in far too long. She didn't realize how much she'd missed it.

He touched a thumb deftly across her cheek. "I love you," he said, and there was no mistaking his earnestness.

"I know," she said. "_I know_."

And for the first time, her words were true.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! And now the fun begins...I'm certainly looking forward for Lisbon to become Jane's (for lack of a better word) apprentice. Hope you guys will like the journey I've planned out for them!**

**Also, I'm sorry if my Spanish is not quite up to par! I've only ever taken beginner level classes :)**


	3. Chapter 3: Bold Enough

**AN: Thanks everyone for your continued support of this story! I'm behind on replying to reviews (what else is new?) but things in my life should slow down a bit after an exam I have tomorrow, so I'll try to get to those ASAP. I hope you like this chapter; it diverged quite a bit from where I had intended it to go, but I think it's better than I had originally planned.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.**

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Chapter 3: Bold Enough

Later that night, Jane and Lisbon sat together on their couch. All the windows to the small apartment had been left open in an attempt to take advantage of the nonexistent breeze. Though the heat hadn't abated any since her venture into town, Lisbon inched closer to Jane, glad for his warm arms around her. A single lamp lit the room, emitting just enough light for Lisbon to read from the book of poems she'd bought earlier.

She was halfway through the first poem, taking her time with the Spanish pronunciations. After the first line, Jane had pulled her closer towards him, her back resting against his front. His arms rested just under her breasts, and every time she breathed in she felt him. Jane lowered his head to her shoulder, and his lips came to rest by the crook of her neck.

After she'd finished, Jane spoke, his lips moving against her skin. "Can you translate it? Please?"

Lisbon shivered, the touch of his lips bringing about a sensation in her stomach that she likened to the feeling of the first drop of a particularly high roller coaster.

"The title, roughly translated, means 'stargazers'," she said, and began to read in English.

She felt Jane's eyelashes brush her neck, and she knew he'd closed his eyes. When she'd finished the poem—quietly reciting _But for now, I look to you/the stargazer_—his eyes were still shut, and she closed the book while turning in his arms.

She'd thought the poem would resonate with him. It certainly had for her with its message of wishing one could see what a loved one could, despite being blind to their beliefs. Maybe someday, like in the poem, Jane would come to understand what she saw in _him_.

Jane opened his eyes, and upon turning around, Lisbon found herself face-to-face with him, so close that she could make out the individual specs of color in his brilliant irises. He wasn't teary-eyed, and, for once, nor was she. She studied his face, and it took her a moment to comprehend his expression.

Admiration.

With the grace of a professional romantic, Jane took the book from her hands and set it on the coffee table in front of them while simultaneously leaning forward to kiss the side of her mouth. He was being deliberate, she knew, saving the best for last, and she turned her head to give him better access. His lips teased her there for a while before moving south to kiss down her jaw and onto her chin while one hand tangled in her hair and the other moved to stroke her hip.

Lisbon didn't even try to control her breathing, which had become embarrassingly erratic, and she moaned quietly as his lips found a particularly sensitive spot on her neck. She reached out and grabbed his arms to steady herself.

Finally—_finally_—his lips encountered her own, and she kissed him back eagerly, grinning against him when she realized his breathing matched her own. His tongue sought permission, which she granted gratefully—_of course he had permission, she was his_—and his hand moved from her hip to her stomach to gently push her down on the couch. She complied.

His body covered hers, and the sound of rustling clothes harmonized with the breaking of the waves.

* * *

"Alright," said Jane, breathing in deeply and clasping his hands together. He touched his lips with the tips of his fingers. "The first thing to know if you want to become a human lie detector is that there is no such thing as a perfect liar. Everyone has a tell."

They were sitting together on the edge of a circular stone fountain in the center of the city plaza, shoppers buzzing around them heading to market or greeting friends for lunch. Lisbon sat facing Jane, her legs crossed—as she'd referred to it in her schoolgirl days—applesauce style, and Jane rested one leg on the fountain, his knee bent and supporting an elbow, the other foot touching the ground. Water splashed down beside them, and they felt the occasional spray of mist from the fountain when the wind picked up.

He glanced at her, the scruff of his beard appearing nearly golden in the sunlight, and took in her raised eyebrows. He chuckled. "Yes, Lisbon, even me. I have a tell."

"Pray tell," she said, and he laughed again at her play on words.

"I actually have multiple tells, but I've learned to mask them well. We'll get into that later." He paused and looked over at her. "I think the most reliable way to tell if I'm lying is to look for microexpressions."

"Microexpressions," said Lisbon, testing out the word.

"Yes," said Jane. "Microexpressions are just that—expressions that cross your face for a fleeting second as you react to something. They're involuntary, so you can't control them. And because of that, they reveal the true feelings of the individual wearing them."

"Can't something like this be faked?"

Jane shrugged. "Not really. These expressions are instinctual—they're preprogrammed into our DNA by millions of years of evolution. Even people who are born blind make the same universal microexpressions for certain emotions. Because we make these expressions instinctually, they're extremely difficult to mimic on command. A person who is trying to fake a microexpression either gets the timing off—for example, the expression lasts too long—or uses the incorrect muscles."

Lisbon's eyes widened, and she stared at him in disbelief. "'Incorrect muscles'?" she quoted.

He smiled at her incredulity and dug some folded sheets of paper out of his shorts pocket. He handed her the first one, and she looked down to find a depiction of a human face straight out of an anatomy textbook. There was no skin, just striated lines where the different muscles of the face wove together. The names of the muscles were sketched on the diagram in Jane's messy handwriting. Jane pointed at the paper Lisbon now held in her hands, and their eyes met again.

"The muscles of the human face," Jane elaborated. "You'll want to memorize the locations and names, of course. Certain combinations of muscles, like the corrugator and the orbicularis oculi, are only involved in certain expressions."

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "It's like Anat and Phys in high school all over again," she laughed.

"I bet your teacher then wasn't nearly as attractive as the one you have now."

Her jaw dropped—Jane rarely flirted so obviously with her, and even rarer still did he flirt with her in public. "He was about fifty-five and had a handlebar mustache," said Lisbon, grinning. "So, yes, Jane, you're correct. After all, who could compare to you?"

He laughed again, the sound nearly intoxicating, and Lisbon breathed in the similarly heady scent of the flowers arranged around the fountain. Jane handed her another picture, this one of a human face showing a particular expression. "We'll start with six of the most commonly agreed upon microexpressions. This one's disgust. Notice how the orbicularis oris curls up a bit? And how the brow crinkles? That's the corrugator supercilii wrinkling."

Jane looked up from the paper and searched the town square. "There," he said, after his eyes had wandered for a while and then landed on something. Lisbon looked in the direction he was pointing to and saw a garbage can. "Watch as people pass the trash bin," he suggested. "Sooner or later, someone will catch a whiff of it—looks like it hasn't been emptied in a while."

Sure enough, as though on cue, a young boy ran through the plaza, a soccer ball at his feet. He passed the trash bin as he dribbled the ball, and his nose crinkled for a fraction of a second in disgust.

"See it?"

Lisbon nodded eagerly, and she searched the crowd for another example. After a minute, her eyes landed on the shop of the _carnicero_—the Spanish word for butcher—and she watched the expressions of the passerby who walked in front of the store where the goods were displayed in the glass windows. Soon enough, a couple of American tourists came into view. One of them looked up, saw the meat hanging in the window, and the same look crossed her face for a millisecond.

Lisbon turned back to Jane, pleased. Jane handed her another sheet of paper with a similar drawing on it.

"This one shows fear," he began, and he described the characteristic muscle movements as Lisbon listened, entranced.

* * *

An hour later, Jane had finished explaining the six main microexpressions—disgust, fear, sadness, happiness, surprise, and anger—and Lisbon's lower back had begun to protest her lack of movement. She rubbed her spine, massaging the muscles there, and Jane folded the rest of the papers he held in his hands and returned them to his pocket.

"That's enough for one day," he said. "The best way to really learn this stuff is only a little at a time. It's easier for your brain to file away smaller bits of information." He stood up and arched his back a bit, and Lisbon heard his knees crack in response. Lisbon grabbed her purse from the ground and stuffed away the papers Jane had given her. She smiled, remembering that he had also given her homework.

Jane offered his arm to her, and she stood as well, linking their arms and leaning against him as they walked across the plaza. It had begun to clear out as people returned to work after their lunch breaks, though it was still occupied enough to buzz with conversation.

After a few steps, Lisbon froze, feeling as though something were off.

Jane turned to face her, and she saw surprise flit across his face—his orbicularis oculi muscles contracted, making his eyes widen. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction for her first time in successfully reading him, but pushed the thought aside.

"Lisbon?" Jane asked, looking at her closely.

Lisbon glanced around the plaza. The buildings looked unchanged, their adobe coloring and flowers as bright as ever—but the _people_ appeared different. She continued to look around. As she watched, the locals' expressions one by one turned from smiling to horrified as they talked with one another, as though they were all taking place in a macabre version of the game telephone.

She turned to Jane. Without a word, her dark expression seemed to convey to him exactly what she was thinking. He looked over her head, scanning the crowds around them, and grabbed her hand.

"Come on," he said. "We need to figure out what's going on."

They walked quickly, Lisbon nearly jogging to keep up with Jane's brisk pace, and he led them to the used bookstore down the street. The bell jingled as they walked towards the store, and Adriana appeared, closing the door behind her and locking it.

"Adriana?" Jane called, still holding onto Lisbon's hand. Lisbon breathed deeply, trying to catch her breath. Adriana turned sharply, her movements tense and her hair messier than when Lisbon had last seen her, as though she'd been running her fingers through it anxiously.

"Señor Jane," she said.

"Has something happened?" asked Jane, not bothering with pleasantries.

"You have not heard?" asked Adriana, her eyes wide. As she spoke, Lisbon noticed that Adriana's bright red lipstick had smeared, leaving a smudge on her front incisor. Lisbon wondered why she had not fixed it—or what had caused her to become so preoccupied she had forgotten to fix it.

Adriana continued breathlessly, and her accent became so heavy that Lisbon struggled to understand the words. "Thirty minutes ago, there was an earthquake on the…the…I believe you Americans call it a plate."

"An earthquake?" asked Lisbon. "We didn't feel a tremor."

"It's not the earthquake we are worried about here on the island," explained Adriana patiently. "It is the aftereffects."

Lisbon's experience with earthquakes in California had taught her that what happened _after_ an earthquake could be just as deadly as what happened _during_ one. She felt Jane's hand tense in her own and knew he'd come to the same conclusion.

"Where did the earthquake take place?" asked Jane.

"It is not known exactly. Somewhere in the ocean, hundreds of miles from here."

"Is the island being evacuated?" asked Lisbon, feeling the cop part of her resurrect after pushing it away for so many weeks.

"They fear there is no time," said Adriana, her voice pained. "It would be more dangerous to be caught in a tsunami fleeing the island than to endure it here. Everyone is moving to higher ground."

"Muchas gracias, Adriana," said Lisbon, nodding her thanks to the bookseller and pulling Jane away from the shop. A second later, she'd released his hand and begun to sprint towards their apartment, Jane running along in her wake.

"Lisbon!" he yelled after her, and she sprinted faster. "_Lisbon!_ What the hell do you think you're doing?" He caught up to her, grasping her arms tightly and pulling her back.

"The apartment," she gasped, breathing heavy. "My sheet music—your book..."

Jane shook his head, pulling her in the opposite direction, towards the road which led to the highest point on the island. Lisbon vaguely recognized another of the expressions she'd learned today—fear—etched across his face. "That's madness, Lisbon! Nobody knows how much time we have!"

As if to prove his point, a young couple ran past them in the direction Jane pointed to, the father holding tightly to a newborn infant.

Lisbon moaned, still desperate to escape his reach. "Please, Jane. _Please!_"

"Not a chance in hell," snapped Jane, and he pulled her away from the road that would lead them back to the apartment. "Look at me, Lisbon. Look at me!"

She tore her eyes away from the road for a second to meet his.

"The music, the book," he said softly. "All of it's in here," he said, gesturing to his head. "I promise you, that stuff is not going anywhere."

She stopped struggling immediately, and he began to pull her again. They followed the younger couple.

Lisbon risked one last look behind her, but she felt Jane give a sharp pull on her arm, and she focused her attention on scaling the hill in front of them.

She didn't look back.

* * *

**I feel obligated to point out that I've never experienced an earthquake nor a tsunami, so I took a lot of creative license with that particular plot point. As always, feel free to point out any mistakes I've made so I can correct them! And as long as I'm taking creative license, let's pretend Lisbon didn't learn about microexpressions while training to become a cop...**

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4: If I Look Down

**AN: Thanks again for your interest in this story, whether it be through favoriting, following, reviewing, or just reading. As always, I'm honored to write for such a lovely fandom. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.**

* * *

Chapter 4: If I Look Down

Lisbon ignored the dust she was forced to breathe in as she ran. She held tighter to Jane with every passing moment—as they neared the dirt road that would take them up the foothills and to the island's highest point, more and more people converged around her, and she couldn't face becoming separated from him. Smaller dirt roads bled together, like tributaries emptying into a major river, and the inhabitants of the small village were pulled along together with the current. Lisbon said a small prayer than the village only contained a few hundred people. The road up the hill was crowded but open enough so that people still traveled at a quick pace. If more people had lived there, evacuation to higher ground would have been impossible.

After twenty minutes of running, most of it at a severe incline, Lisbon was relieved to finally reach level ground. She joined the group of people looking out over the village, scanning the ocean for signs of incoming danger, and got her first view of the island from above.

Had the situation been different, Lisbon could have spent the entire day just taking in the village below them, the bright greens and browns of the town contrasting intensely with the brilliant blue of the sea beyond. She found the center of the town easily—the plaza she and Jane had just vacated—and her eyes moved east, towards their apartment. After a moment, she spotted the pale blue exterior, and she turned away from the overlook, towards the hundreds of people who had gathered to watch the horrors unfold. She looked to Jane.

His mouth was slightly open, his brows furrowed, and his eyes seemed to droop with weariness. She noticed with a sadness which overwhelmed her that she'd seen this expression on his face many times. Before, it had been reserved for those moments when he'd been reminded of his late wife and daughter. She recognized it as extreme anguish.

Lisbon squeezed his hand and pulled him away from the overlook, away from the people. As the crowd thinned, she took in the rest of the clearing before her. In front of her, directly across from the overlook, was a small church with adobe-style architecture. However, the church was painted white in lieu of the brownish-red coloring characteristic of adobe. Though she'd heard from the other villagers that the church had been abandoned as the town grew and space became limited, it looked anything but derelict. The white paint was pristine, the flowers and palm trees which lined the entrance appeared immaculate, and up on top of the slanted roof, a sparkling bronze cross caught the sun and glimmered at her.

She stopped walking, knowing that religion tended to make Jane uncomfortable. But then their eyes met, and an understanding was shared between them.

They'd seen so much disaster in their lifetimes.

There was no reason to make themselves witness any more.

Jane pulled her against his side.

Together, they walked into the church, leaving the crowd to witness the darkness that loomed over the village.

* * *

They sat in the last pew.

When they spoke, they spoke in whispers which echoed so loudly Lisbon was sure God was listening to their conversation. Lisbon glanced up, taking in the blue tiled ceiling with accents of gold and the towering brick arches above them.

Their hands were linked and rested on Jane's right thigh.

She watched him, taking in his profile as he stared determinedly up at the pulpit. Behind the pulpit was an enormous mural which Lisbon could not make out at their distance. She _could_ make out the colors though; the earthy tones—the browns, the reds, the creams—reassured her. Lisbon returned her attention to Jane and saw a droplet of moisture slide down his face, whether from sweat or tears she could not determine.

She thought both were equally likely.

"I wanted to bring you somewhere safe," Jane said into the silence. She put her other hand on his leg. "When I asked you to come with me, I didn't think I'd be exchanging one form of danger for another. I wanted to keep you safe."

Lisbon shrugged, feeling herself choke up. She was not sure at all what to say. She decided not to respond and instead shifted closer to him.

"Wherever we go, it always seems to find us, doesn't it?"

She blinked. "What does?"

He looked over at her. "Danger. Trouble. Darkness. Take your pick."

She studied him for a while, her brow furrowed in thought. "That's not the way I see it," she said finally. "I always thought that we were the light in the darkness. You can't run from the dark, Jane. The only way to get rid of it for good is to be brighter."

She saw wrinkles form at the corner of his mouth and watched as a small smile graced his features. It was displaced quickly, however, when a rumbling sound from the distance made its way to their ears.

Someone outside screamed.

Automatically, Jane relinquished his hold on her hand so that his arm could wrap around her shoulders instead. He pulled her into him, and she buried her face in his neck. Despite the rising sound that surrounded them, now resembling a roar rather than a rumble, the faint sounds of Jane's voice could be heard as he hummed to her. She recognized the piece she had written for him—the piece he had sung her to sleep with—and she sung the words alongside him.

As the roaring noise approached ever closer, the sounds of the watching spectators intensified. Once the shock of the forceful noise of the tsunami had passed, there were few screams. Instead, Jane and Lisbon made out the sound of prayers and of weeping.

Lisbon sang on.

A few seconds later, a hush came over the crowd. A short while after that, the roaring sound peaked, and the intensity of the noise made Lisbon clench her eyes shut. Her body tensed, and Jane's arms around her tightened. She felt his hand at the back of her head shake slightly.

And then it was over, almost faster than it had begun. The silence in Lisbon's head seemed louder than the sound of the crashing waves had been, and she looked up at Jane.

His eyes were closed. She didn't think she'd ever seen him look so terrified.

"Do you think there's anything left?" she whispered.

He opened his eyes and looked at her blankly. "I wouldn't bet on much," he said, his voice emotionless. "But I don't know. I don't know."

* * *

Hours later, after the displaced water from the waves had receded from the village, people began making their way down the foothills, away from the small church and towards what remained of the town. Lisbon hesitated at the door to the church, where she and Jane had spent the afternoon and evening, not sure if she could handle walking the dirt street to her apartment and finding nothing but debris.

Jane pulled at her hand, muttering to her, "We need to figure out if anything's salvageable," and she relented against his touch, letting him lead her out of the church and towards the overlook.

Though it was now dark, the moon was full and afforded a view of the island. Lisbon's breath caught.

The major structures—the town plaza, the new church—all remained standing. She looked to the road leading to their apartment and nearly fell over with giddiness at the sight of the familiar residences, all still upright. The beaches, in contrast, seemed to be a mess—Lisbon couldn't make out any of the brilliant white sand that usually glowed under the moonlight. Instead, the places where she knew the beaches to be were dark, covered with debris that had been sucked back towards the sea as the waves receded.

Lisbon didn't want to think about how much work would be required to clean up the beaches. The sheer volume of debris promised days of long, intensive labor.

But things could have been far worse, she reminded herself, stealing a look at Jane and finding a similar expression of relief on his face. For one thing, the lower part of the island could very well have been flatted. For another, they could have been down on the beach, oblivious, as the tsunami approached them.

They could have been killed.

Lisbon turned into Jane's arms, and he enveloped her in his embrace. She breathed him in, the scents of dirt and sweat and something she couldn't quite pinpoint that was quintessentially Jane telling her all over again what she had just realized.

They were alive.

They could have been killed—_but they were alive._

She smiled, and they broke apart to begin their long journey back to the apartment.

They didn't talk on the way back. Instead, they were content to follow the crowd, which broke apart as each family broke off down separate roads to return to their homes. Eventually, it was their turn to break off, heading down the dirt road which led away from the plaza, which remarkably looked as unremarkable as it had when Jane and Lisbon had fled from it.

When their apartment came into view, Lisbon broke into a run, unable to wait any longer. She glanced at the tropical garden Jane had planted, almost becoming teary-eyed at the sight of the delicate flowers still stuck in the soil, then let herself into the apartment.

The first thing she noticed was that the floor was blissfully and wonderfully dry, and as she walked down the hall towards the back door, her happiness grew—despite the apartment's proximity to the beach, the waves had not reached the building. Upon looking outside, Lisbon discovered that the trail leading from the back door to the beach had not been so lucky. Like the beach itself, the path connecting their apartment to the beach was covered in broken shells, dead plant material, and driftwood. Lisbon turned right, into the family room, and sunk down on the couch. Jane was two steps behind her, and he followed her into the room and kneeled down in front of her. He rested his forehead on her knees, and she leaned forward, her body hovering over his protectively.

When she felt his breathing even out, she realized he'd fallen asleep.

Lisbon ran a hand through his curls to wake him. Then she led him back out of the family room, past the kitchen and into the bedroom.

They fell asleep fully clothed on top of the covers, their fingers intertwined.

* * *

Jane and Lisbon didn't wake until nearly noon the next morning. After grabbing a quick breakfast, they set out to the beach, where the pick-up efforts had just begun

Their neighbor, an elderly man named Christian, waved them over.

"Hola, Christian," said Lisbon as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail. "¿Cuál es el plan?" _What's the plan?_

Christian stood taller and had a leaner build than Jane. He was a runner, and frequently he and Lisbon would travel the same routes. She was amazed at his endurance—some days, it was all she could do to keep pace with him. Despite his age, which was nearing eighty, his gray hair had not begun to thin. He warmly gestured to the groups of people who had already begun to pick up the debris on the beach.

"Everyone must wear a pair of these," he said in Spanish, handing both Jane and Lisbon a pair of thick, rubbery gloves. He spoke slowly, so that they could better understand him. "The doctors are concerned about any dead sea creatures which may be on the beach—who knows what diseases they carry. For now, everything that is small enough is being put into these bags," he continued, handing out large garbage bags. "Someone from the mainland will be coming to dispose of the bags once they are full."

"Gracias," said Jane and Lisbon in unison, and they joined their neighbors in beginning to restore the beach.

It was slow, tedious work, Lisbon soon realized, and her back soon began to ache from the repetitive movement of bending down. At first, she distracted herself by conversing with her neighbors, such as the nosy Señora Ramirez, who informed her that the town had been essentially shut down as everyone abandoned their jobs to aid in the clean-up efforts. Lisbon also learned that American doctors were currently en route to the small island; apparently, the small number of medical professionals on the island worried that the mess left behind by the tsunami could cause an outbreak of any numbers of diseases that they were not equipped to handle.

Eventually, Lisbon's head began to pound, exhausted from trying to translate the foreign language in her mind. At this point, the sun beat down on them, and Jane turned to her, his hair windswept and unkempt.

He smiled. Without another word, he began to teach her the rest of the microexpressions they hadn't been able to learn the previous day.

The work passed much more quickly when she focused on learning from Jane, and soon Christian was calling everyone over to halt work for the day. As the sun started to sink into the ocean, the volunteers stripped off their gloves and began to head home. Lisbon looked up and down the beach, surveying what they'd accomplished.

She sighed. It didn't seem like very much.

As they crossed the threshold of their back door, Jane attempted to lighten the mood.

"You know, Lisbon," he said, shutting the door behind them. "The doctors are extremely concerned that we might be picking up some diseases while cleaning the beach. I'd say a thorough shower is in order."

Lisbon leaned against the wall and raised her chin in amusement. "Oh, really?" she said, and he moved closer to her.

Jane smiled wickedly. "Really. And since we're trying to protect humanity from the spread of disease, we might as well save the environment while we're at it—take one shower. You know, to conserve water."

Lisbon snorted. "'To conserve water'," she quoted.

"And should there be other benefits…"

She giggled, which he took to mean she acquiesced.

He gathered her into his arms and carried her down the hall, her laughter echoing throughout the apartment.

* * *

**AN: Thanks again for reading! **

**Also, special thanks to those who leave guest reviews who I cannot personally thank. Azucar in particular always brightens my day, and I've received so many heartfelt reviews from other guests which I also appreciate greatly. So, if you are reading this: thank you very much!**

**A couple other notes: Eldanar pointed out that Lisbon's Spanish was not correct in the original version of this chapter. I've updated it to use the correct word. Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Eldanar!**

**And for those who were wondering, the island did not lose power. The refrigerator is still working (so they were able to prepare breakfast in the morning), and they still have running water (so Jane and Lisbon were able to take that shower).**

**Up next: Jane's got a memorable surprise in store for Lisbon's next lesson. **


	5. Chapter 5: Stay With You

**AN: Thanks to you, dear reader, for sticking with the story this far, and thanks again for the support in general I've received for this story. It really does mean the world to me.**

**This chapter is extremely fluffy. I blame it on a particularly bad case of The Mentalist Withdrawal that I'm experiencing this week.**

**Also, I feel compelled to point out (after an astute reviewer mentioned it) that the island did not lose power after the events of last chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.**

* * *

Chapter 5: Stay With You

The next day, Jane and Lisbon woke early and immediately returned to the beach. They spent the majority of the day continuing to clear the beachfront, only pausing for a half hour to return to their apartment for a quick lunch. Later, as the volunteers abandoned the beach to return to their homes for supper, Lisbon once again surveyed the coast. This time, she noted with a blossoming feeling of encouragement, she could see the difference their efforts had made.

Perhaps the clean-up would not take as long as she had originally thought.

After washing up meticulously, removing the grime of the day's work, Lisbon and Jane prepared dinner together. For most of the meal, they ate in companionable silence, having spent the majority of the day conversing to make the work go faster. After Lisbon had swallowed her last bites of beans, however, Jane spoke.

"So," he said, twirling his fork between his fingers. "I've been thinking a lot about what your second lesson should be."

Lisbon took a sip of water and waited for him to continue, her face expectant.

"I actually figured it out last night, after you'd fallen asleep," he said, smiling a dazzling smile and casting his eyes down to the kitchen table. "And I set it up before you woke this morning."

Lisbon set the glass of water back down and pushed her plate away from her. She set her elbows on the edge of the table, folding her forearms against each other so that her hands touched the opposite elbow. "Set what up?" she said, intrigued and slightly apprehensive at the same time.

Jane lifted his eyes to her and grinned. "You'll see," he said, and grabbed both of their dishes, depositing them in the sink. He motioned with his hand for her to follow him, and she rolled her eyes but stood up from her chair to walk after him.

He waited for her outside the front door, and she stepped across the threshold hesitantly to join him near the garden he'd planted earlier. Despite the fact that it hadn't rained that day, tiny droplets of water ghosted the petals of the flowers, and Lisbon pictured Jane, watering can in hand, sprinkling water onto the miniature arboretum he'd created. She smiled.

Lisbon looked up at Jane, who was looking at her, his gaze almost scrutinizing and his smile still obvious. She walked towards him.

"Lesson number two," said Jane, in a sing-song voice characteristic of an elementary teacher. Lisbon rolled her eyes again.

"Alright," Jane continued. "The next thing I'm going to show you also involves involuntary muscle movements, but it's a bit trickier than reading microexpressions. Instead of watching for the muscle movements that give away when someone's lying, you're going to _feel_ for them."

Lisbon raised her eyebrows, unconvinced. "If you plan on teaching me some Jedi mind tricks or psychic mumbo-jumbo to _feel _someone's aura, I have some choice words for you—" she began, but Jane cut her off.

"No need to say something you'll need to bring up later in confession, Lisbon," he said, his eyes teasing. He offered her his hands. "No, what I meant is that you will be holding onto my hands and literally feeling for any twitching movements. You've seen me do this before."

She nodded, slightly more convinced. He took a step towards her, raising his wrists to her again.

She grabbed his hands and held them awkwardly in her palms, not quite sure what to do.

Jane continued. "The most important thing about this is making sure you can feel my pulse," he said. "So make sure your index finger and your middle finger are on the radial side of my wrist—that's where the blood vessel is that you'll want to keep track of."

Lisbon moved her fingers as he instructed, and she felt the steady pulse of Jane's heart seem to keep time with hers. "Aren't you able to manipulate your pulse, Jane?" she asked, skeptical. "How exactly does this help me?"

"I can control my pulse," he admitted, "but only to an extent. Usually it takes me a while to get it under control, though, so there's a short amount of time that you would be able to detect something."

"And you're giving me permission to grab your hands anytime I'm worried you're lying about something so I can check your pulse?"

"Precisely."

"All right, then," said Lisbon, satisfied. "So this is your baseline?" She counted the beats in her head and watched the seconds go by on her watch to get a reading.

"For all intents and purposes, yes," said Jane. "There is, of course, the matter that you happen to be in close proximity—and that usually raises my pulse a couple of beats per minute. But because you being in close proximity to me is required for you to take my pulse, we can consider this a baseline."

She flushed at his words, surprised by his blatant honesty and still amazed that she seemed to have some sort of effect on his physiology. The thought made _her_ pulse skyrocket.

"So here's the game," said Jane, his pulse still steady under her fingers and his eyes dancing. Lisbon glanced up and down the street, glad to find it empty. She didn't want to imagine what passerby would think about their unusual conversation—and position.

"I've hidden a small wooden box—about the size of a typical music box—somewhere in the general area. You're going to use my pulse, and my involuntary muscle movements, to help you find the box. Keep your eyes on my face as well, Lisbon—those microexpressions from our first lesson might come in handy. Oh," he added as an afterthought, "and whatever you find in the box is yours."

Now extremely intrigued, Lisbon renewed her grip on Jane's wrists and moved his arms towards her—towards the street. Then she moved to the left, rotating him a quarter turn. She repeated the motion on the right, but Jane's pulse remained the same. She made to turn him around completely so that he would face the apartment.

She felt it then, a slight twitch in his left arm accompanied by an irregularity in his pulse. His face was blank, but she grinned at him.

Slowly, she backed into the apartment, through the open front door, which he kicked shut behind them. Lisbon turned them to the left, towards the bathroom, still holding onto his hands. He didn't fidget, and his pulse remained even.

She turned them towards the hallway instead, and he blinked twice.

Lisbon backed down the hallway, leading him towards their bedroom and never once losing eye contact. It was a little disconcerting, she realized, the feel of holding his intense gaze for so long, and she realized she was probably giving away as much as she was learning about him.

Once they reached the bedroom, she moved his hands towards it, feeling for a change in his pulse. Only when she'd turned the corner of the hallway towards the kitchen and the family room did she feel his pulse skip again.

She had to take a moment to recover from the intensity of his eyes, and as she walked backwards again, away from the bedroom, her gaze lowered to his lips. Lisbon realized this was not helping her concentration and soon returned her eyes to his own. She found amusement reflected back at her.

Lisbon moved left on impulse, towards the family room, and was surprised to see his eyes dart towards the far side of the room. She smiled triumphantly and pulled him along with her.

She dropped his hands after that, the softness in his eyes telling her to look at the piano rather than the bookshelf, the only two places to hide an object in that part of the room. His unreadable, blank stare disappeared, and in its stead Lisbon was touched to see pride.

She opened the lid of the grand piano and quickly found the box he'd spoke of. She set the lid of the piano back down gently and walked over to Jane, examining the box.

It looked old and was smaller than a shoebox, and the color of the wood had faded—what looked like it once had been dark, mahogany brown was now similar to the shade of Jane's hair. She looked up at him curiously.

"When my mom left," he began quietly, "she took all of her possessions with her. Except this."

Lisbon bit her lip and grabbed Jane's hand, noting vaguely that his pulse had shot up exponentially.

"It was her jewelry box," he added. "I'd like you to have it."

Lisbon took a step back and searched for the piano bench behind her. She sat down, and her first impulse was to keep her emotions in check—to keep her eyes shrouded.

Then she looked at Jane, whose hand she still held and who had been trying so desperately to earn her trust, and she let her eyes mist over. She pulled him over to sit down next to her.

"What do you remember about her?" she asked, her hands grazing the top of the box and running with the fine grain.

He shrugged. "That's all I have," he said. "My first memories don't contain her, so she must have left or died before I could remember. My dad wouldn't tell me anything about her. And he forbade anyone in the carnival from talking about her as well."

She looked over at him, wondering if she should suggest trying to track his mother's whereabouts, since there was a chance she could still be alive.

"I don't want to find her, Lisbon," he said, as though reading her mind. "I've already met one parent from hell and don't have any desire to repeat the experience."

She nodded, understanding.

"Besides," he said, making an effort to be more positive, "there are other ways to measure family than through blood."

Lisbon thought of Cho, who'd walk by her side through hell if she asked him to; of Rigsby, whose loyalty she would trust with her life; and of Van Pelt, who was the nearest thing she'd ever had to a sister.

And she thought of Jane, who held her through her nightmares and who teased her when she was feeling sad. Jane, who'd taught her that love knew no boundaries. Jane, who'd offered to share the deepest, most intimate parts of himself with her so that she would trust him.

"Yes," she agreed. "Blood is not always thicker than water."

She turned towards him, and her gaze was immediately drawn back to his lips. She leaned forward.

When they were a fraction of an inch from each other, Jane spoke, his breath warm on her lips.

"You haven't opened the box yet," he reminded her.

Lisbon pulled back, suddenly recalling his earlier words to her.

_Whatever you find in the box is yours._

She opened the lid, silently congratulating herself when her fingers shook only a little, and held her breath.

She let it out quickly upon discovering that nothing was inside it.

"What—" she began, and caught the look of mischief on Jane's face. "What are you playing at, Jane? There's nothing in here!"

He held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Yet!" he said. "There's nothing in there _yet_."

Lisbon narrowed her eyes at him. "What's going in there, Jane?" she said.

Jane looked at his hands, which were still held out in front of him. He moved his right hand to his left and fiddled with his wedding ring, twisting it to slide it off his finger.

Lisbon felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. She watched in silent disbelief as he held the ring in his right palm for her to see. Then he dropped it in the jewelry box on the awaiting velvet and closed the lid softly.

"There," he said, pushing the box towards her body. "It's yours now." Her hands hovered over it, as though the box were some sacred artifact from thousands of years ago.

In reality, she thought, it was much more important.

"Jane?" she asked weakly, hoping he would elaborate.

He let out a breath of air. "I know I'm not the easiest person to be in a relationship with," he started. "And the fact that we both have trust issues—well, that just makes things even more difficult. But I love you," he said, his voice breaking a little, "and I trust you more than anyone in the world. And I want for you to be able to trust me too. So all this," he said, gesturing to the box she now cradled against her, "and the lessons—all of this is me giving myself to you. I want to share every part of my life with you—my past, my family…and…and myself."

He paused, and Lisbon looked at his left hand, where a pale band of skin now stood out on his ring finger. "I know it's not a lot to offer," he said. "But it's all I have."

Lisbon swallowed, and her hands brushed phantom particles of dust off of the jewelry box. "If you're offering me all you have, Jane, that's one hell of an offer," she finally said.

And suddenly his lips were crashing against hers, his hands cradling her head.

For the first time, Lisbon didn't feel the touch of his warm metal ring against her skin.

She pulled back, breathless.

"You don't have to give me these lessons anymore, Jane," she said, breathing deeply. "You've proved your point. You've gone way beyond what was necessary to prove yourself to me."

He leaned in again, touching his lips much more languidly against hers. "I know. But I've found I kind of enjoy teaching you these things—teaching you about myself. Plus, imagine what a team we'll be when we return to the States. We already were the best partners in the entire CBI. After you learn all this, we'll be unstoppable."

She found time to respond when he began to kiss her jawline eagerly. "But now I wish I could do more for you, Jane. I don't want you to feel like this relationship is one-sided."

He stopped kissing her to pull back and give her a serious look.

"Don't you _ever_ think that—not for one second. Whether you realize it or not, I learn from you every single day."

"I don't understand."

"Lisbon," said Jane gently, "you're teaching me how to live again."

She tried to respond, but her voice seemed to have abandoned her. Flustered, she turned around on the piano bench, set the jewelry box on top of the instrument, and nudged Jane so that he would turn around as well.

Without a word, she placed his hands on hers, so that their fingers were aligned.

Together, they began to play.

* * *

**AN: So Lisbon has officially forgiven Jane, and this new level of their relationship will be the foundation for the second half of the story. As you guys will see soon, the tsunami of last chapter will be the catalyst for the major issue in what remains of this fic, so it's certainly good that Jane and Lisbon are solid.**

**Also, I'm not going to have much access to the internet this week, which means I probably won't update the story until next weekend. Hopefully this chapter is fluffy enough that it will leave you somewhat satisfied...**


	6. Chapter 6: I Want to Be

**AN: Thanks again for sticking with this story and for the amazing response to last chapter. I'm glad you guys seemed to enjoy it as much as I did! Hopefully you like this second half of the story just as much. I'm still working on responding to reviews, so I'll get to those ASAP.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.**

* * *

Chapter 6: I Want to Be

"This isn't working."

"It'll come, Lisbon," said Jane gently. "To be honest, I would have been extremely surprised had you been able to do it the first time."

They sat facing each other, cross-legged, in the sand after yet another day of beach clean-up. They'd found time to multitask—while picking up the debris from the tsunami, Jane began lesson three.

Hypnosis.

Though Lisbon had told Jane that his lessons had more than served their original purpose—building her trust in him—and that he shouldn't feel obligated to share any more of his specialized skillset with her, she was secretly glad that he'd wanted to continue their lessons. They'd come to an unspoken agreement after the events of the previous day: though the lessons would continue, their content would focus more on useful tricks Jane had picked up over the years rather than techniques he could teach her to read him.

Thus, her current predicament with hypnosis.

Jane had explained the theory to her throughout the course of the day. She had been disabused of her misconception that weak-minded individuals were the most susceptible to hypnosis—Jane had patiently explained to her that rather than having a weak mind, it was a person's ability to concentrate which made them an ideal candidate for hypnosis. After walking her through several ways to determine how susceptible someone was, Jane had then gone on to describe multiple ways to approach putting them into a hypnotic state. Later, he'd explained in great detail how to extract the information needed from a person under hypnosis and then how to snap them out of it.

Then, at the end of the day, he'd suggested she try it out on him.

And she had tried. Multiple times. But no matter the approach she used, Jane remained very much aware of her and their surroundings.

She supposed she should be grateful that he was being honest about her limitations as a hypnotist. After all, he probably could have hypnotized himself all the while convincing her that she was the one responsible.

Lisbon sighed.

"It's been a long day," said Jane. "And it's a lot to take in. Really, Lisbon, don't be so hard on yourself. You've been picking up everything else so quickly—we were bound to find something eventually that you weren't so natural at."

She nodded tightly.

"I had to try on seven different people at the carnival before I figured it out," said Jane.

Lisbon snickered, imagining a teenaged Jane trying—and failing—to hypnotize his carnie friends. She pulled her mind back to the present and took in the Jane before her—khaki shorts, barefoot, island shirt rolled up to the elbows, and hair becoming more and more sun-bleached by the day. She smiled and leaned in to bridge the distance between them.

Instead of meeting her halfway, Jane rolled backward, so that his spine rested on the sand, and his hands went to Lisbon's ribcage, pulling her down on top of him. She held herself up on her elbows, her dark hair falling on either side of his face and cutting them off from the rest of the world.

"When you hypnotized me all those years ago," she said playfully, her hands running through his hair, "were you tempted to ask me things you knew I wouldn't tell you about under normal circumstances?"

Jane smiled up at her, and his thumbs drew steady motions on her ribs. "Are you getting ideas, love?" he asked in a similar tone. Lisbon breathed in deeply at the term of endearment, still not entirely used to it, and she knew Jane's clever hands had noticed her reaction. "You know, you don't have to put me under hypnosis to ask me things."

She shook her head. "I know that," she said. "Now, at least. But back then, we weren't as close. If I was in your place, I would have been very tempted."

To her amazement, a fleeting look of embarrassment crossed Jane's face. "If you must know, I _did_ ask you something that wasn't strictly case related. _Two _somethings, in fact."

"What exactly did you ask me? If you recall, I don't remember any part of the conversation we had when I was under."

Jane grinned. "I asked if you danced to your Spice Girls CD," he said.

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "You probably knew the answer to that anyway."

His smile became wider. "I wanted to hear you say it," he explained before continuing. "I also asked for elaboration when you mentioned that the new mail guy was hot."

"_What _did I say?" she nearly squeaked, her eyes widening. When she met his gaze, she ducked her head, embarrassed.

Jane moved a hand from her ribs to her chin to lift her face back to his. "I admit, I was intrigued. At the time, I didn't understand _why _I was so interested in who you were attracted to, but with hindsight being twenty-twenty…"

"_You were jealous_," said Lisbon delightedly. "Patrick Jane, you were jealous!"

"Okay," he began, shrugging. "Maybe I was a tiny bit jealous—"

"You're an idiot," said Lisbon, and she leaned down to kiss him.

* * *

Over the course of the next few days, the clean-up efforts succeeded in restoring the majority of the island's beachfront. The main marina and all of the essential beaches near residential areas had been cleared, and by the end of the week, children began to return to school while their parents reopened their shops. That Friday, a small group of volunteers, Jane and Lisbon among them, set out to clear the sole beach on the far side of the island. Due to its location beyond the foothills, it was the last of the beaches on the island set to be restored.

The group was once again spearheaded by Jane and Lisbon's neighbor Christian, who shuttled the workers to the distant side of the island in his motorboat. Lisbon was relieved upon her first glance of the beach: it was smaller than she had pictured in her mind and didn't appear to be as affected by the tsunami as the other beaches on the island. Sharp rocky cliffs enclosed it on either side. A cloud moved lazily in front of the sun as the group unloaded from the boat, casting shadows over the beach and threatening afternoon rain.

As they worked, Jane remained mostly silent, and Lisbon was grateful for the break from their third lesson. Despite further attempts on her part to hypnotize Jane, she had yet to pull him under, and her frustration was building. Instead, they quizzed each other sporadically on conjugations of irregular Spanish verbs.

After a few hours, the beach itself had been restored to its earlier, pristine condition. Some debris remained on the dark, rocky cliffs that surrounded the beach, and the group split up in pairs to begin clearing the rocks.

Jane and Lisbon continued their impromptu quiz session as they walked together to the rocks.

"Tener," said Jane, referring to the verb for _to have_. "Future tense."

Lisbon made to answer, but she spotted a piece of scratch metal, its brilliant red a stark contrast against the dull brown of the rocks. She felt Jane follow her line of vision, his gaze tilting up until he, too, saw the piece of metal situated above a boulder that was nearly as tall as he was.

Lisbon quickly rattled off the different versions of the verb, stumbling only on the plural second person, and Jane offered her a leg up to help her climb the rock. She placed one hand on the enormous boulder beside her and the other on Jane's shoulder to steady herself, then used Jane's interlocked hands as a step and allowed him to lift her upwards. She pulled herself up and over the rock, hoisting her body on top of it, and looked down at Jane, who grinned back up at her.

"Volver, imperfect tense," she said, and Jane recited the conjugated forms of the verb back at her, his pronunciation horrendous but the words otherwise correct. Lisbon straightened up, intending to reach for the piece of metal to hand back down to Jane, but her attention was caught by the new view afforded to her in the direction opposite from the route they had taken to arrive at the beach.

Another cloud passed in front of the sun, and Lisbon squinted into the distance.

"Querer, present tense," Jane said from below her, his tone prompting, but Lisbon ignored him.

The treacherous rocks continued on for as long as she could see and seemed to disappear around the curve of the island. Her heart nearly sank when she saw the more red scrap metal littered across their surface.

Her heart nearly stopped when she saw the source of the scrap metal.

At the base of the rocks, perhaps 100 yards from her, lay the remains of a small cargo ship. It rested on its side, hoisted a foot above the water by the jagged rocks supporting its weight, and Lisbon had a sudden vision of a monstrous wave flinging the small boat onto the tooth-like rocks.

Perhaps not all the inhabitants of the island had made it to the safety of the foothills when the tsunami had hit, she realized.

"'Querer' is not even a difficult one, Lisbon," said Jane teasingly. His demeanor changed when he noticed the tense set of her shoulders. "Teresa?" he asked, his voice tight.

"Get the others," she responded quietly, and Jane backed away from the boulder slowly at first, keeping an eye on her, then turned and raced across the beach to locate Christian. A minute later, she heard five pairs of feet racing through the sand.

Lisbon quickly grabbed the piece of metal, taking care not to cut herself on its sharp edges, and handed it down to Christian. She spoke urgently to him in English, knowing that his knowledge of her language was better than her knowledge of his.

"There's a capsized boat on the rocks."

In her peripheral vision, she could make out Jane staring intensely at her. He held his hands in front of his torso, tapping them against each other as he did when trying to work something out in his mind.

Christian nearly dropped the chunk of metal. His face paled with the realization of her words, and she knew he was thinking about the deadly rocks that enclosed the beach from either side.

"Capsized?" he repeated.

"On its side, lying on the rocks," Lisbon clarified.

Jane spoke for the first time in minutes. "Lisbon, do you have your phone?"

She touched a hand to her pocket and pulled out her iPhone, understanding what he'd wanted her to do. She snapped a few pictures of her view of the wreck and handed the phone to Jane, who held the phone so the others could see and swiped through the pictures. Christian took the phone from him, his eyes widening, and Lisbon knelt down and moved toward the edge of the rock, where Jane held out his arms for her. She fell into him.

Jane sat her down beside him as Christian examined the photos and the other group members—three young adult males—looked over his shoulders. Christian's face hardened, and he spoke to the others behind him in rapid Spanish that neither Jane nor Lisbon could follow. The three young men headed towards Christian's boat, which had been tied up further down the beach, and Christian turned to Jane and Lisbon.

"I do not think it is likely that whoever was on that boat survived," he said. "However, we must check in the unlikely event that they did."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Christian maneuvered his boat between the sharp peaks of the rocks as they approached the capsized ship. A light drizzle had begun to fall, making navigation slightly more difficult, and the outline of the shipwreck gradually became more clear.

The metal sides of the ship were scuffed and scratched beyond repair, and a gaping hole had been ripped through the front part of the hull by a particularly gruesome rock. Pieces of metal torn from the ship littered the seaside.

Christian called out, searching for a response Lisbon knew would not come—if the tsunami had not killed the crew of this ship, a week without food or water would have.

Jane echoed Christian's words in English, his tone far from hopeful.

One of the young men pointed suddenly to their left, and Christian cut the motor, unable to risk getting any closer. Jane and Lisbon turned simultaneously to follow his gaze and spotted a long tear in the cargo hold, wide enough to allow them a look inside.

At first, Lisbon thought the hold was filled with fur coats, and she wondered idly what exactly the cargo ship was doing in such a hot, tropical region of the world. Then, as the drizzle ceased for a minute and her vision became clearer, she realized what exactly she was looking at.

Animal pelts.

Hundreds of them.

All looking very exotic—and very illegal.

She felt Jane stiffen beside her, and she knew he'd come to the same conclusion. "Smuggling ship?" he asked her quietly, and she nodded in agreement. "Good riddance," he added, and she nodded again.

The rain started once more, and a forceful wave shifted Christian's boat, allowing them to see a different angle of the wreck. One of the younger men in front of Lisbon swore loudly in Spanish.

Off to the side of the cargo hold, lying prone on top of some of the smuggled furs, was a human foot, bloated and swollen from decomposition.

* * *

**AN: Thanks for reading! The next update will come quicker than this one. After my week-long hiatus, I really began to miss these characters and this world!**


	7. Chapter 7: If the Water's Cold

**AN: Thanks again for reading, reviewing, and favoriting this story! I'm particularly fond of this chapter, and I hope you all like it as well.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.**

* * *

Chapter 7: If the Water's Cold

Later that afternoon, Lisbon listened to the sound of rain falling against a tin roof, her eyes closed and head resting against a cool window. The rough sounds of _clunks _and _thunks _nearly drowned out the voices of the people around her, but she attempted to concentrate on Jane's deep tenor from across the room, where he sat giving his statement of the events that had occurred earlier that day. She pictured squad room in her mind, packed with officers in navy blue uniforms and too-small desks.

The police headquarters for the island—a decently-sized, bright white building with green accents—was located across town from their apartment, but despite the drizzle that had continued to fall, Christian had navigated his boat towards it. They'd spent the last few hours giving their accounts of the shipwreck—and what they had found inside it, though the rain and rough waters had prevented anyone else from going back to the site to investigate further.

Lisbon wished she had a change of clothes. Her maroon tank top and black shorts were still damp from the rain and turbulent surf.

Someone sat down in the chair next to her, which creaked in protest. Lisbon opened her eyes to find Christian, who was offering her a glass of water with a small smile.

"Gracias," she said gratefully, taking the glass and downing it in a few gulps. She held the empty glass in her hands and looked over at him.

For the first time since she'd met him, her neighbor was beginning to show his age. Though Lisbon had known that Christian was nearing eighty, he'd always been active enough to pass for at least ten years younger. Today, however, the dark shadows under his eyes were particularly pronounced, and the wrinkles on his forehead seemed more indicative of exhaustion than of wisdom, which she'd previously associated them with.

He mimicked her posture, leaning his head back against the window as well.

"I told them that you were police," he said slowly in Spanish, and Lisbon was relieved to find she could understand the sentence with little brainpower. Finally, after several long weeks, she could hold a conversation.

"¿Por qué?" asked Lisbon. _Why?_

"This type of thing," began Christian, motioning to where Jane was talking with a detective. "We do not see that here. The police will not know where to begin—they will need advice."

Lisbon answered him in Spanish, stumbling over the pronunciation for only one word. "I left that life behind me," she said. "Actually, Jane and I are _still_ running from that life."

He gave her a knowing, pointed look that reminded her of Cho, his face stoic. "They need your help with this, Teresa," he said gently. "You and I both know this could be far bigger than a simple smuggling operation gone bad."

She raised her eyebrows, surprised that he had been able to read her so well.

After she'd given her statement and waited for Jane to finish his as well, Lisbon's mind had wandered to recent high-profile smuggling arrests. She'd realized their situation, however ominous it currently seemed, had the potential to get a hell of a lot worse.

Perhaps she hadn't left her life in California behind after all.

Lisbon nodded at Christian, who held out his hand for the empty water glass. She passed it to him and pulled her borrowed police jacket tighter around herself before crossing the room to join Jane and the detective, who sat across from Jane behind his desk.

Jane looked up at her when she approached, and she could tell he was making an effort to appear more composed than he actually was. She sat down beside him in the remaining empty chair, not feeling as steady as she had hoped to appear. Jane shot her a concerned look.

"We were just finishing up, Lisbon," he said in English. He turned to the detective. "Ella es mi novia, Teresa." _She's my girlfriend, Teresa._

The detective, a man with a thick build and close-cropped dark hair, shook her hand and spoke to her in English. "You can call me Torres. Everyone around here does."

"Mucho gusto," she said, and her eyes darted to Jane before returning to meet the detective's gaze. Though the detective was young, his mannerisms told her he wasn't lacking in experience.

"My boyfriend and I used to work for the California police," began Lisbon in English. "The last thing I want to do is try to tell you how to run your investigation, but I think there are some things you should know about these kinds of cases."

Torres folded his hands in front of him and leaned forward on his elbows, his expression scrutinizing but not unwelcoming. Jane shifted a fraction of an inch towards her, and she knew he was working hard to contain his surprise.

"From what I've experienced with smuggling operations, there's always an ulterior motive involved," she said.

"Money," Jane agreed, and Lisbon nodded before continuing.

"In recent years, there's been an increase in poaching of endangered species to make products like what we saw in the cargo ship wreck. As species become more rare, prices for the products go up. It's a never-ending, vicious cycle—and it's also, unfortunately, a very profitable business."

Jane's eyes narrowed, and she knew he'd worked out the reason for her concern. Torres motioned for her to continue.

"The smuggling of threatened and endangered species, dead or alive, has the potential to fund large enterprises. The United States is particularly worried about its potential to fund one such enterprise—terrorism."

Torres sat back in his swivel chair and folded his muscular arms across his chest. "Animal pelts can't really be worth enough for the hassle, can they?"

Jane leaned back and rested his hand against his mouth, and his index finger tapped his upper lip.

Lisbon spoke tensely. "Not just animal pelts—tusks, antlers, horns and anything that can be sold. A mere cubic centimeter of ivory from an elephant tusk can go for thousands of American dollars. And that's not to mention the live animals, which can be even more expensive."

Torres let out a low whistle.

Lisbon shrugged. "Like I said, it's a profitable business. And causing mass terror costs money." She paused, then leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. "Look," she said. "I'm just trying to warn you that you might need some more help with this—it could be bigger than just one dead body on a cargo ship."

"Are you offering?"

Lisbon glanced at Jane, who nodded. She turned back to Torres.

"If you'd like us to help, we'd be glad to assist in any way we can. However, I was thinking more along the lines of getting the mainland police involved. You heard our descriptions of that ship—there's no way a single person was navigating it all by themself. That means there's one of two things going on here that you need to worry about. One: there are more bodies on that ship that we aren't yet aware of. Or two—"

"—the other members of the crew survived the tsunami," finished Jane.

Despite knowing what Jane was going to say, Lisbon shivered. Torres didn't seem to notice. "Trust me, you don't want terrorist-associated smugglers hiding out on the island," she added. "Sooner or later, they'll need food and water—and a way out of here. If anyone survived that wreck, it's best for everyone else's safety that we find them as soon as possible."

Torres nodded, and when Lisbon stood up, he did as well, offering his hand for her.

She shook it.

"Thanks for your help, Teresa—and Patrick," he said, turning to shake Jane's hand. "Your insights are extremely helpful."

She nodded again and waved goodbye to Christian, who was currently in the middle of giving his statement. Lisbon shrugged off the jacket she'd borrowed and hung it on the back of the chair she'd just vacated. Goosebumps erupted up and down her arms. Jane put an arm around her shoulder, and they walked out of the station, his grip on her a little tighter than normal.

* * *

The rain continued to fall well into the night, and Lisbon listened as it softened to a drizzle. She lay in bed, the light sheet pulled over her hips, facing towards the window. Jane's breathing was even and deep beside her.

Yet Lisbon couldn't sleep.

She didn't know why the news of the shipwreck had her so terrified. Back in Sacramento, she'd shared the city with numerous crooks, thieves, and even some murderers—but she'd never worried for her safety. Now here she was, in a South American paradise, and she was anxious because some smugglers may or may not be terrorists.

She told herself there was no reason to worry.

Hell, the smugglers might not even have _survived_ the tsunami.

"I thought I was supposed to be the insomniac."

Lisbon laughed softly, because she knew he'd wanted her to, and she rolled onto her back.

"I thought I'd give you a break," she said. "You seemed pretty exhausted after today."

"Well," said Jane, blinking drowsy eyes and shifting his pillow to make it more comfortable, "it's not every day you discover a potential smuggling operation looming over your island paradise. I have a right to be tired."

Lisbon stared determinedly at the ceiling.

"That is what's bothering you, isn't it?" asked Jane.

"Yes—and no," she said, wondering how to phrase what she was thinking. She sighed. "Of course I'm worried about—about…whoever's out there," she said, stuttering a bit. "But I'm also wondering why I feel so much more concerned for my safety now than I did in California. I don't understand it. I was working directly with criminals for a living and can't ever recall feeling concerned about the dangers I faced. But now, I'm worried about the mere _possibility_ of criminals being on the island, even if I don't know they're here."

"So," said Jane, his voice low with sleep. "You're concerned because you're concerned?"

"Well, yeah. That about sums it up."

"Hmmm," said Jane, and then he was quiet for so long Lisbon thought he'd fallen back asleep. Eventually he spoke again.

"So what exactly caused this change?" he wondered aloud. "Lisbon, what's different about your life here compared to Sacramento?"

She snorted. "What isn't?" she said. "I'm speaking a new language, living in a new country, meeting new people—hell, Jane, even _we _have changed!"

"What do you mean?"

Lisbon was still staring at the ceiling as she answered him. "Well, for starters, I love you," she said without thinking, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. When nothing but silence answered her, Lisbon realized the weight of what she had just said.

Though she'd almost grown used to hearing Jane declare his love for her, she'd never returned the words to him out loud.

Well, until now, that was.

"Oh," she said lamely, tensing automatically.

Jane turned towards her, reaching out to pull her closer. She felt his hands tremble on her skin, and she wondered if it had been more than a decade since someone had told Jane he was loved. She found the thought pained her.

"Lisbon?" Jane asked weakly, as though treading lightly on fragile ice.

Green eyes met blue.

She framed his face with her hands. "You have to know by now, Jane," she said. "You figured it out far before I did myself, remember?"

"Figured what out?" he said, and a rush of microexpressions crossed his face. Lisbon read them all in fascination—joy, awe, surprise, and pleasure.

"That I give a little piece of my soul to you every day," she said, barely able to hear her own whispered words. "That my heart was yours long before I'd realized I'd even given it away." She swallowed, her throat tight. "And that I love you."

Words abandoned Jane, but Lisbon was content to fill the silence by leaning over and kissing him tenderly on the forehead, her lips trailing down to his nose and then to his lips. He kissed her back eagerly and wrapped his arms around her.

"Does it all make sense now, love?" he said, enfolding her into his arms.

She nodded against his chest. "I'm not worried about my safety—I'm worried about _yours_." She tangled their feet together. "Back in Sacramento, I couldn't afford to think about how your safety would affect me. I knew you were going to do what you needed to—at whatever the cost was. But now…now I can't act so impervious anymore. If something happened to you…" she said, embarrassed when she began to tremble in his arms.

Jane tightened his grip on her and kissed the delicate skin at the corner of her eye. "If something happened to me, you'd be fine," he assured her. "I know you would be—and I think you know that as well."

"I'd survive," corrected Lisbon. "But I don't think I'd be 'fine' again."

"Don't say that," said Jane softly, soothingly. "Lisbon, if something happened to me, I'd want you to be happy again—I'd want you to live again."

Deciding this argument was getting her nowhere, Lisbon changed tactics. "Oh, so you'll promise me you'd be alright someday if something were to happen to me?"

Jane stiffened, and she felt his skin flame. He didn't respond, and when she looked up at him, she saw wild panic in his eyes. She laid a hand on his chest, and she could feel his heart racing through his thin t-shirt.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean—"

"I know," he said hoarsely. "I just…Angela made me promise I'd try to make it somehow, if something ever happened to her. I don't think I'm strong enough to make the same promise to you."

Lisbon blinked several times to dispel the telltale moisture in her eyes. She tried to think of herself in Jane's position.

She was amazed he'd even had the strength to follow through on that first promise to Angela. She said a silent prayer to Jane's guardian angel for forcing him to make that promise—for bringing him into her life.

She couldn't argue with him after that.

"Okay," she said, resting her head back down on his chest. She was pleased to find that his heartrate was slowing. "So I'll promise you: if something happened to you, I'd make it. I'd do everything I could to be happy again." She felt some of the tension leave his arms. "Let's try to get some sleep, alright, Jane? We've had too many deep conversations tonight."

They settled against each other, and their breathing returned to normal. She whispered "I love you" just as sleep was about to claim them both.

His smile was the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes.

* * *

**AN: Thanks for reading! For those wondering, smuggling of threatened and endangered species is actually quite common today. Because smuggling T&amp;E species is sometimes associated with terrorist groups, there are actually conservation forensics labs which can fingerprint DNA of smuggled animals and use that to trace where they came from. So if a bunch of elephants were killed on a reserve in Africa and their tusks ended up at US customs, scientists can confirm the DNA with the reserve DNA and use it to convict criminals. Pretty cool stuff!**


	8. Chapter 8: When I Fall

**AN: Hello everyone! Thanks for your reviews for the last chapter (and for my oneshot _In Case_). I appreciate every bit of your input and feedback, and I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.**

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Chapter 8: When I Fall

Early the next morning, Jane slipped out of Lisbon's arms, murmuring something about heading into town to grab fresh food for breakfast. Half-asleep, Lisbon felt him kiss her bare shoulder. Her hands tangled with his, and despite her groggy state, she felt the indentation where his old wedding band had been.

Smiling widely, she fell back asleep.

An hour later, she dragged herself out of bed and pulled on a tank top and yoga pants. When a quick look in the kitchen revealed Jane had not yet returned from the market, she grabbed her running shoes and laced them up, planning on running towards town and hoping to run into him on her way there.

The recent rain made running down the dirt road a game of puddle jump—Lisbon danced around and jumped over the murky pools of water, feeling more like a ballerina than a runner. Her run was slow-going, and by the time she made it into the town proper, her lungs were burning. She slowed to a walk as she neared the plaza, and she realized she hadn't seen Jane on his way back to the apartment liked she'd expected.

A slight breeze swirled around her, bringing a sense of foreboding with it.

She pushed the feeling away as quickly as it had come. She turned her attention to the people wandering around the plaza—schoolchildren enjoying their weekend free from the classroom, shop owners attempting to keep up with the breakfast rush.

But no matter where she looked, Jane's bright eyes and smile remained elusive.

Lisbon crossed the plaza, feeling her stomach begin to knot. She knew she was overreacting, but especially since the conversation they'd had just last night, she couldn't help it. The buzz of conversation dulled around her, becoming white noise in the background, and she jogged around the fountain in the middle of the plaza, then past the shops on the other side, following the road out of the town she'd taken with Jane many times to the farmers' market.

She could just make out the tips of the produce tents over the hilly landscape—the market itself was surrounded by high brick walls that enclosed the grounds. Lisbon picked up speed, now running towards the end of the road. When she cleared one of the higher hills close to the farmers' market grounds, she skidded to a halt, hands on her hips and breathing hard.

She watched as several armed _policia _entered through the brick gateway to the market, their weapons drawn and sweeping from tent to tent. Lisbon had seen this kind of police maneuver more times than she cared to admit.

The police were searching for someone.

Someone who was armed.

Three seconds later, the screams started.

Lisbon took off, racing down the hill and toward the market, splashing through the puddles she had so meticulously avoided on her way into the city. Through the narrow view afforded to her by the gateway, Lisbon could just make out an older man slinking back in terror, clutching a grade-school-aged boy to his side. The armed policemen moved further into the market, obviously not finding their target near the entryway.

As the dirt road leveled out, Lisbon drew closer to the gateway. When she was about a hundred yards from it, four figures emerged, all of them very obviously not part of the police force. Three were carrying what looked like machine guns, all aimed at the fourth individual.

Jane.

They were walking backward slowly, forming a triangle formation around Jane and using his status as a hostage to escape the market.

Lisbon skidded in the mud and came to a halt. Ever the cop, her mind began supplying her with answers to questions she hadn't yet thought to ask. Were these men the missing crew from the shipwreck? It seemed probable. And likewise, it wasn't difficult to figure out why they'd decided to target the farmers' market—without a reliable source of food or water for nearly a week, the fresh produce would have been impossible to resist. However, it looked like the smugglers' plans to raid the market had been foiled by the local police. How the police had been alerted to the presence of the smugglers was beyond her comprehension for the moment, but Lisbon found she didn't quite care.

All she cared about was standing in front of her, being held at gunpoint.

Jane's hands were plastered to his side, and he took small steps backward, keeping himself between his captors and staying uncharacteristically silent. At that moment, the armed policemen appeared in the gateway, and they followed the foursome out of the marketplace, their guns aimed at the smugglers.

"Drop your weapons!" said the man to Jane's left. Lisbon registered an English accent, but the baseball cap he wore didn't allow her to distinguish any of his physical features.

Torres, the detective Lisbon and Jane had spoken to the day before, appeared to be leading the group of policemen. He looked torn—though he'd succeeded in clearing the criminals out of the marketplace, they were walking towards the center of town, where even more locals continued on with their daily routines, oblivious to the turmoil that was occurring not a mile from them.

Torres' eyes glanced up, over the smugglers' heads and towards the town. He spotted Lisbon, as of yet unnoticed by Jane's captors, and though he maintained a steady grip on his firearm, his hands dropped a fraction of an inch in surprise.

It was enough. The Englishman whipped around, his gun still held on Jane, and noted Lisbon's presence for the first time. He smiled slightly, obviously pleased at the stroke of luck which had allowed him to double his hostages, and moved his weapon to face Lisbon. She held his gaze determinedly.

"You," he said, his voice impatient. His eyes flashed at her, cold and dark, and she fought the urge to shiver. "Come here."

The policemen had no choice but to let her follow the Englishman's orders, though they kept their weapons raised. Lisbon took a cautious step forward, and when nothing happened, she took two more.

Five more steps, and she was shoulder to shoulder with Jane. "Hey, you," she said softly, so that the others could not hear.

He tensed immediately, and his eyes widened. He swore under his breath, obviously not having expected her to be the additional hostage.

With all three guns now held on Jane and Lisbon, the captors began moving backwards again. Lisbon pressed the length of her arm against Jane's, glad when he intertwined their fingers, and focused on keeping time with his footsteps.

The Englishman spoke again, and Lisbon felt cool metal against the side of her head, a stark contrast to the crushing heat that threatened the island even this early in the day.

"I meant it. _Drop your weapons now, or she dies_."

Jane's grip on her hand grew tighter.

Lisbon watched in horror as Torres nodded to his police force, and, in synchronization, they lowered their firearms to the ground.

"Now head back inside the gate."

With Torres as their lead, the now-unarmed _policia_ backed slowly through the brick gates.

"You follow us—they die."

The Englishman turned towards Jane and Lisbon. She took in his appearance in a split second. Taller than Rigsby with dark hair and even darker eyes, he looked imposing but—aside from that—completely unremarkable. He motioned with his gun for them to turn around. They did, breaking contact for a split second only for Jane to grab her other hand when they began to walk forward.

The smugglers directed them away from the road, and Lisbon felt the tiniest bit of relief—at least the people who were making their way through the plaza would not be in any danger.

Lisbon snuck a glance at her armed guard out of the corner of her eye. The man to her left had the same square jaw and dark complexion as the Englishman, but the man in front of her didn't share the resemblance: he was half a foot shorter than the other two, and his hair was similar in color to Jane's.

Jane caught her eye, and she knew he'd noticed the difference as well.

Their captors led them away from town and towards the far side of the island in the direction of the beach that Jane and Lisbon had cleaned up the day before. Lisbon prepared herself for a long trek and lamented the fact that she'd already run several miles that morning in the blistering heat. Without water, no less.

And it was likely that wherever they were headed, no refreshments would await them.

The quintet was soon swallowed up by the swaying palm trees that marked the beginnings of the tropical forest that lined the far side of the island, and Lisbon's eyes began to adjust to the shade. As they moved through the dense brush, she found she didn't want to know what she was stepping on—a mistake that cost her when she tripped over an exposed root.

She fell forward, but Jane's arms caught her before she fell into one of the armed men. As he steadied her, Jane's lips came to rest just below her ear.

"Blondie's got a super low threshold," he whispered, his voice so low she wondered if he'd really spoken.

She gave his arm a squeeze to let him know she'd heard him, then straightened up and continued walking. The Englishman eyed her suspiciously. Lisbon turned Jane's words over in her head, and her thoughts quickly returned to their third lesson.

_Threshold_ was a jargon-y term that Jane used to describe how receptive someone was to hypnosis. The lower a person's threshold, the easier they were to hypnotize. Though she wondered how useful that information could be at the current moment, she clung to it like a lifeline—if Jane was considering hypnosis, then that meant he was making plans to get them out of this.

They trudged on, and Jane left his arms around Lisbon, tucking her into his side. Lisbon lost track of time, and of distance, and instead focused on dodging the errant palm branches which jutted into their path.

Eventually, their captors slowed their pace, and the group approached what appeared to Lisbon to be the sorriest excuse for a campsite she'd ever seen. Embers glowed in a crudely-constructed fire pit, and pieces of trash littered the ground—including multiple plastic water bottles, which all appeared empty.

So they'd run out of food and water, Lisbon thought. That explained their visit to the farmers' market. She wondered why they hadn't just come into the village after the tsunami in the first place and asked for help—then it occurred to her that the smugglers probably hadn't wanted to risk being exposed.

She pushed the details aside. There was time to be a cop later.

Now she had to focus on remaining alive.

The leader of the trio—the Englishman—gestured to Lisbon.

"Tie her up," he said, his voice sounding hoarse. "We'll need her as leverage if anyone finds us."

Lisbon's heart raced, and she knew Jane could feel the change in her pulse.

If they were tying her up, what were they going to do with Jane?

She felt his arms tighten around her, and he gave her the strength to speak up for the first time.

"What do you want with us?"

The Englishman turned around to look at her, his gun still held on them, and gave her a lopsided smile. "You're the insurance, obviously. Your man here is going to head back into town and get us some supplies."

"Alone?" asked Lisbon, trying to understand what their captors had planned.

"Yes, alone," said the man, rolling his eyes. He gestured in the direction of town. "It's not like me and my buddies are going to be welcomed back, are we?"

A sudden feeling of calm rushed over Lisbon.

Jane could escape.

He'd make it.

He'd be alright.

The Englishman must have read the relief in her eyes because he took a step towards her. "Don't go thinking like that," he said, his voice greasy like oil, pointing the gun at her chest and raising a hand to her face. He brushed a thumb over her cheek. Lisbon wanted to recoil, but Jane held her upright. "He'll come back. And he'll come back alone. If he doesn't…"

The unspoken threat was just as explicit as if the words had been said out loud. He jerked his head towards the far side of the camp, and the shorter man grabbed Lisbon roughly, yanking her away from Jane.

Lisbon stumbled, all too aware of the blond man's gun pointed at her as he led her beyond the fire pit. She heard Jane groan behind her, and she caught a glimpse of him over her shoulder—doubled over, clutching at his abdomen, the other gunman just inches from him and clearly moving his arm back to prepare for another blow.

Lisbon made to shout, but Jane beat her to it.

"Wait!" he said, holding up a hand. "Keep me here," he wheezed, one hand on a knee and the other on his stomach. "Keep me and let her get your supplies."

"I don't think so," said Jane's attacker, the second of the men with dark hair and eyes. His voice also carried an English accent. "She's more fun to look at. And probably more fun to play with."

The other dark-haired man snorted, and Lisbon noticed that her captor—who was in the process of tying a belt around her wrists—didn't seem to think the joke was nearly as funny.

In fact, she realized, the blond man seemed almost nervous. His hands shook as he moved to grab another belt and tie it around her ankles. He pushed her to her knees, and she wondered how he had come to have such horrible company.

"How will I know that she'll be okay?" asked Jane, and she easily read the fleeting expression that crossed his face—fear.

"You won't," said the leader of the trio. "However, if you remain here," he continued, "she will die."

"What do you want?" said Jane, and she was proud that he managed to almost keep the desperation out of his voice.

"A boat and all the food and water you can fit in it. You have three hours."

Jane's eyes found hers, and Lisbon nodded sharply. Looking far too pale, Jane backed away from the campsite, holding Lisbon's gaze until the jungle had once again swallowed him up.

* * *

Despite their threats, her captors had not touched Lisbon in the time since Jane had left. After a few minutes of sitting on her knees, her feet had begun to tingle, and she had shifted to sit on the ground. Her new position was more comfortable—but only just.

The two Brits had long ago abandoned the clearing of the campsite to return to the beach, where she knew they hoped to find more of the ship's stored food supply. That left Lisbon with one companion.

Who still had his gun trained on her.

"What's your name?" she asked finally.

He didn't answer.

"Oh, come on," she said. "I've got to call you something, right?"

The man glanced towards the beach, where the voices of his two companions could be heard. "They call me Moran."

"I didn't ask what they call you. I asked what your name is."

He paused again, and the silence extended so long she gave up hope that he was going to answer.

"Mark," he said, his accent clearly American. "I go by Mark."

Lisbon smiled tightly. "That's a nice name." She paused, thinking over what Jane had told her about this man a few hours before. "You look exhausted, Mark," she began. "You three must have been through hell in the past few days."

"You could say that," he responded brusquely.

Lisbon made an effort to keep her voice soothing. "I bet you can't wait to get to sleep tonight. Someplace far away from this island—someplace calm and serene."

Moran looked at her, his face impossible to read.

She continued nonetheless. "When you get there—wherever there is—I want you to think about this conversation before you go to sleep. Think about all the tension leaving your body—once that tension leaves, you'll be weightless. You'll be so light you could fly if you wanted to. And you'll be free; you can leave all this behind you. Isn't that what you really want?"

"Yeah," said Moran, and Lisbon noticed with excitement that his eyes had appeared to glaze over. She kept her voice calm.

"Alright," said Lisbon. "That can be arranged. I'm going to help you, Mark—when I touch your ankle with my hand, you're going to leave this campsite, alright? You're going to leave everything behind you. Are you ready?"

He nodded, and Lisbon reached over to tap her bound hands to his ankle.

She watched his face carefully.

Moran stared blankly at her, as though not at all aware of his surroundings.

"Go on, Mark. You're free."

Slowly, Moran set down his gun and pushed himself to his feet. "Thank you," he said quietly, and he walked silently across the campsite and into the woods.

Lisbon pushed aside her elation at her first successful hypnosis and concentrated on the belt that still remained tied around her wrists. After working it for a minute, she managed to tug it over her hands, rubbing her wrists nearly raw in the process.

A branch snapped in front of her.

The two Englishmen had returned from their scavenging session, empty-handed save for their weapons. They stared at Lisbon, not quite comprehending the situation they had returned to.

Lisbon lunged for Moran's weapon.

* * *

**AN: I apologize in advance for the cliffhanger-esque ending, but as you all know by now I love a happy ending**—**so don't be too nervous!**


	9. Chapter 9: Sure Today

**AN: Thanks for all your guys' feedback, follows and favorites for the last chapter. You motivate me to make every chapter better than the last, and I hope this section does not disappoint.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.**

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Chapter 9: Sure Today

_A branch snapped in front of her._

_The two Englishmen had returned from the scavenging session, empty-handed save for their weapons. They stared at her, not quite comprehending the situation they had returned to._

_Lisbon lunged for Moran's weapon._

Her hands came into contact with cool metal just as the two men in front of her began reaching for their own firearms. Without hesitation, Lisbon pulled the trigger, releasing a spray of bullets into their general direction.

From her place on the ground, her feet awkwardly bound beneath her, Lisbon's aim was atrocious. However, what the bullets lacked in accuracy they made up for in crude brutality. Both men fell to the ground, each having taken multiple blows to the chest. The man on the left—the obvious leader of the smuggling trio—died quickly.

The other was not nearly so lucky.

Lisbon fumbled with the belt around her ankles for a few tense seconds before kicking it aside and rushing over to the two fallen men. She immediately collected their weapons and moved them out of reach.

Then she approached the man who remained gasping for air, his breaths labored and short. She kept her gun trained on him.

He had three bullet holes in his chest, all of which appeared to be over major organs. When his eyes met hers, the sheer terror in them made her look away.

His breathing became shallower, and Lisbon felt simultaneously drawn to and repulsed by him—she couldn't decide whether her desire to comfort the dying man was stronger than her desire to watch him die alone. The latter seemed particularly appealing, especially when she remembered the look on his face when he had goaded Jane. But the seconds ticked by, and still she remained immobile. Just when she had decided to push her revulsion aside—just when she had kneeled by his side—the man took one last feeble breath.

His head lolled to the side, and his eyes lost focus.

Lisbon jumped back instinctually, suddenly feeling overpoweringly sickened. She chastised herself for her response—she'd seen plenty of bodies during her time at the CBI. What made this one any different?

Her answer came to her accompanied by another wave of nausea.

It wasn't just that the dead men in front of her had been a part of something intrinsically malicious—she'd seen hundreds of such cases. More so, it was that they had, in some sense, corrupted her through their actions. Though the men would never again be bothered by the consequences of what they'd done, Lisbon had to live the rest of her life with the knowledge that she'd been forced to kill again.

She felt the blood drain out of her face, and she vomited into the makeshift fire pit.

Lisbon stumbled away from the bodies, making sure to keep a tight grip on her weapon, and she made her way across the campsite. She leaned her forearms against a palm tree, and she let her head drop slightly, hoping to dismiss the dizziness.

When that failed to work, she sat down at the base of the tree and pulled her knees toward her chest. She dropped her head again, and the forest around her finally stopped spinning.

For a minute, she debated returning to town on her own. That idea was quickly discarded. It was at least a two mile trek back through the forest, more if she got lost in the dense foliage. Additionally, Jane's three hours were almost up. He'd be returning soon, and she didn't want to think about how he'd react if he came back to the campsite only to find her missing.

Lisbon remained seated. She kept track of the time by counting in her head, keeping herself focused on Jane rather than her lightheadedness or the exorbitant amount of fluid she was continuously losing through sweat.

Eventually, after she'd counted 17 minutes and 23 seconds in her head, the unmistakable sounds of a motor caught her attention.

Lisbon looked up and was surprised to find the forest remained upright and stationary. Deciding to be slightly bolder, she pushed herself to a standing position. A breeze whistled through the plants on either side of her and whisked the sweat from her body, giving her chills.

She heard the sounds of someone cutting the motor followed by splashing. Lisbon attempted to move from her spot by the palm tree and found that there appeared to be some kind of disconnect between her brain and her legs.

A minute later, Jane appeared from the trail to the beach. His eyes were immediately drawn to the bodies lying at his feet, and his red, sunburned skin paled several shades. His mouth opened slightly, and he took a deep breath, clearly trying to steady himself.

"Jane," said Lisbon weakly. "I'm here."

His eyes caught hers, and he was at her side in an instant, gathering her into his arms as her knees buckled. "Lisbon, what happened to the other man?"

"He left," she mumbled, her words slurring. She felt her vision tunneling, and she tried to keep the effects of dehydration at bay. "I got his weapon."

It was enough explanation for Jane, who—with a muttered "Thank god"—slung her arm over his shoulders and his arm around her waist. Supporting most of her weight, he walked them past the bodies and onto the beach, where Christian's motorboat had been hastily docked.

Lisbon closed her eyes against the bright sun as they exited the forest, and Jane led them over to the boat. He lifted her into it and helped her lie down. Then he poured a bottle of water over her hair and another over her torso. The third bottle he held to her lips and helped her drink.

"Let's get out of here," he said, and he pushed the boat off the rocks and into the sea.

* * *

Lisbon woke the next morning with a massive headache. Jane had mercifully closed the curtains against the harsh morning sunshine, and she opened her eyes to find two ibuprofen pills and a glass of water on her bedside table lying next to a sprig of the same flowers he'd left her the day she'd bought the book of poems. She smiled at the little purple flowers and attempted to sit up.

Her muscles didn't ache as much as she'd feared, and she rested her back against the headboard. She downed the pills and ran a hand through her hair, frowning to herself when her fingers caught in the tangled strands.

"Looking for this?" came a voice from the doorway, and she looked up to find Jane leaning against the doorframe, hairbrush in hand. He was clad only in khaki shorts, and water droplets beaded on his chest only to roll down over his muscles. A faint almond scent revealed he had just stepped out of the shower.

Lisbon smiled. "Among other things," she said, glancing at his chest then back up to his eyes.

"Would I happen to be one of those things?" Jane asked, his eyes sparkling. A soft smile spread across his face.

"Definitely," said Lisbon, and she reached out for him, inviting him over to her.

He leaned over her slowly, holding her eyes with a look that was almost reverent. His lips descended to her mouth, enveloping her in warmth and security and passion.

He pulled back to study her more carefully, and she scooted over to make room for him on the bed.

"How are you?"

It was a loaded question, and they both knew it.

She answered it the best she could.

"Physically, nothing more severe than a minor headache. Emotionally—well, I don't really have to tell you how it feels, do I?"

He pulled her against him, and she gave no resistance. She felt her arms curl around his torso of their own accord, and her fingers traced the bumps of his vertebrae on his naked skin.

Lisbon spoke into his neck.

"What happened?" she asked.

Jane turned her in his arms so that her back was to his chest, and his legs lay to either side of her hips. He grabbed the hairbrush from where he tossed it on the bed and began to slowly run it through the ends of her hair, gently eliminating the tangles.

Lisbon shivered against him. He'd obviously done this before.

She couldn't stop the unbidden image that materialized before her: a young Jane with an even younger Angela, his dexterous fingers carefully brushing out her long, brunette curls. Lisbon was surprised to find the scene didn't send a pang of jealousy through her—instead, it made her wishful for that same kind of domesticity, that same kind of love.

She realized with a jolt she already had it.

She turned her attention back to Jane as he spoke.

"Early this morning, Detective Torres was informed of a possibly-intoxicated American wandering in the plaza. The American matched the description I'd given of our sole surviving captor, so Torres took him in for questioning. Torres soon found that the American seemed to be under the influence of _something_, though it wasn't alcohol."

Jane's voice sounded amused and proud. Lisbon beamed.

"I'm impressed, Teresa. I had no idea what an accomplished hypnotist you would make. Perhaps we should think about starting a double act?"

Lisbon smiled again, and Jane continued to brush her hair. He continued speaking.

"Torres couldn't get anything out of his seemingly intoxicated subject. He called me into town a couple hours ago to see if I could make a positive ID, so I had Christian come over to watch you for a bit while you slept. When I saw the suspect, he was exhibiting textbook symptoms of hypnosis—you must have done quite a number on him, Lisbon. Anyway, I realized what must happened—how you had gotten away—and convinced Torres to let me question him."

"Jane! Questioning a suspect who's under hypnosis is illegal!"

"So is attempted murder, so forgive me if I don't feel a whole lot of sympathy for the guy."

She turned around to look him in the eye and was surprised by the lack of emotion she found there. It reminded her of the coldness exhibited by Jane when, early on in their partnership, he had told her over and over again that Red John was his. That, when he found the serial killer, he'd take great pleasure in slitting the monster's throat and watching the life bleed out of him.

She shivered and turned away from him.

Jane seemed to sense her unease and continued with his story. "At any rate, I convinced him to admit to his crimes of the previous day, and after a while I got the names of several of his employers. The guy—Moran, he said his name was—claims he got pulled into the smuggling operation. Friend of a friend heard he was having trouble paying off his graduate school loans. Moran, who just completed a doctorate in zoology, had the perfect skillset to help care for the live animals that were being smuggled on that ship—none of which, of course, actually made it to their final destinations alive. Torres is going to forward the information to the FBI. I asked him about the terrorism link, and he says it's too soon to know anything. Once the feds have had a chance to dig into it, I'm guessing we'll know more."

"They will," said Lisbon. "Actually look into it, I mean. If there's anything that the FBI takes seriously, it's threats of terrorism."

Jane finished brushing Lisbon's hair and began to braid it. As his hands brushed lightly over her scalp, she was hit by another sudden image, almost violent in its intensity.

Blonder, curlier hair being teased into a braid by the same sure, clever hands that were currently on the nape of her neck.

Jane, braiding the hair of his child. His Charlotte.

She felt unwelcome moisture in her eyes, and she blinked quickly before he could see.

Her vision shifted. The girl's blonde mane turned dark and her features morphed slightly, but her eyes remained mischievous.

Lisbon felt almost bereft when the image faded.

"Jane," she said slowly.

"Lisbon?"

"Do you…do you ever think about starting a family?"

"You _are_ my family, Teresa."

"I know," she said hastily. "I guess what I meant was…do you ever think about—about _expanding_ our family?"

His hands in her hair stilled, and she was too afraid to turn around to look at his face.

"All the time," he said. "All the time."

He tied the braid off, and she leaned back into him, feeling his heart race beneath her. His arms twisted around her.

"I mean," he hastened to add, "I don't think either of us is ready to do more than think about it yet, but someday…"

"Yeah," said Lisbon, smiling in spite of herself. "I finally feel like I'm sure of what we have today. I want to revel in that a little longer before we look to someday."

She met his eyes cautiously, still anxious about revealing so much of herself—still anxious about the chill of the water when she fell.

She needn't have worried.

Jane's kiss was tender and adoring as he answered her.

"I'm very much looking forward to someday with you."

* * *

**AN: Thanks for reading! I have one last chapter (the epilogue) planned for this story, and then I have some other ideas for oneshots which I've been planning to write for awhile. So no worries, I'll continue to be around after _When I Fall_ is completed!**


	10. Epilogue: Be Wild

**AN: Thank you all, one last time, for your support for this story. It was truly a joy to write, and I'm glad that it seemed to resonate with you all as well. I hope you enjoy this last chapter!**

**Also: It's Lisbon's first Mother's Day!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.**

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Chapter 10: Be Wild

Her fingers struck the keys, and the slow tune that resulted was soft but strong. If she concentrated hard enough, she could imagine a guitar and drums in the background, and the song took on an almost-bluesy feel. It had taken her a year, but the melody she'd started when they'd first arrived on the island finally had words to go along with it.

Maybe she'd just finally realized the story she wanted to tell.

Lisbon's voice was low, almost but not quite straining at the deepest notes. Her voice and the sound of the piano twisted together as though in some mystical, intangible form of dance, and her music permeated throughout the small beachside apartment.

She finished the song sans flourishes, letting the music wane, and the sound of waves breaking gradually returned to her.

"You're ready to go back, aren't you?"

Jane stood at the entrance to the family room, leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed across his chest and his expression thoughtful.

She looked at him, her brow furrowed. "A week ago, had you asked me that question, I would have said no," she began. "But…" she gestured to the piano. "I've been working on this song for a year now—since before the tsunami. It's finally done. And somehow…somehow I think I could say the same for our time here. This place…it's been a safe haven for us. It's been paradise. But—"

Jane nodded. "But it will never be home."

"Well…yeah."

The soft crash of ocean waves nearly drowned out her quiet words, but he understood.

"You miss your family—and your friends," he said.

Lisbon turned around on the piano bench and surveyed him. Over the past year, his hair had grown longer and blonder, his skin had acquired a light tan, and his smile had begun to appear with greater ease. She blinked once, thinking about all the ways she had changed as well.

Then she thought about all the ways they had changed _together_.

Jane had opened himself up to her, and in turn she had taught him about life. And they were still learning from each other.

Lisbon hoped they would never stop.

She pulled her attention back to their current conversation.

"You _are_ my family," she said emphatically. "At least, you're a big part of it. But yes, I do miss my brothers—and I miss Cho, and Van Pelt, and Rigsby. It's been a year since I've been able to contact any of them."

"You're torn," said Jane in understanding. "You know it's safest here, but home is where the heart is."

Lisbon smiled. "Well, there's an argument to be made that my heart is wherever you are—and if it really was safer for us here, I think I could be content to live in South America with you forever. But if there's even the slightest chance that things have changed—that it's safe to return…" She shrugged, knowing she could never find the right words but needing to try nonetheless. "This year we've spent away—I think it was necessary in order for us to heal. It was necessary in order for us to truly set Red John behind us. But I miss my life," she said simply. "I miss my family."

A look of pure adoration crossed Jane's face, and she was floored by the sheer intensity of his gaze. "I'm ready to go home, too," he said, walking towards her and leaning in to kiss her forehead, his slight stubble scratching gently against her skin. His eyes sparkled as he pulled away, and he smiled mischievously at her.

"What?" she said, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Nothing," said Jane quickly as he straightened up. "It's just funny that we should have this conversation right now, what with the old friend I just ran into." He gestured behind him, and Lisbon's eyes were drawn to the kitchen—and more specifically, to the person now standing there, his arms crossed and expression as neutral as ever.

"Cho!"

Lisbon abandoned the piano to rush towards the former CBI agent and throw her arms around him. She was pleased to note, just before his arms reached up to hug her tightly in return, that the broadest of all smiles had crossed his face.

"It's good to see you, Lisbon," said Cho, and his arms tightened around her once more before releasing her.

Lisbon took a step back to truly take him in for the first time in over a year. He was clad in jeans and a dark gray t-shirt, and she was surprised to see that he wore flip-flops instead of his usual practical closed-toe shoes. Despite his footwear, he looked as intimidating as ever. She grinned.

"I missed you, Kimball. How have you been doing?"

"I just finished up at Quantico," he said, smiling in spite of himself.

"So you're FBI Agent Cho now?" Lisbon bumped her shoulder against his companionably. "Sounds about right. Good for you, Cho. That's amazing news. Congratulations!"

"Thanks," he said.

An inkling of fear cut through the happy reunion. Lisbon's eyes flashed to Jane. "If Cho could find us…" she began, her voice laced with anxiety.

Jane put one hand on her forearm. "Relax, Teresa. I told Cho—and only Cho—where we'd be before we left. I figured at some point, we'd want to know when it was safe to return. And I don't trust anyone more than Cho, apart from you, of course."

Lisbon thought of Jane's biofeedback tricks she had learned recently and managed to slow her heart down. Then, as she realized the implications of what Jane had said, her heart sped up again.

"It's safe?" she asked. "We can come back?"

Cho nodded. "Got a call from Abbott right after I graduated from Quantico about a month ago, claiming that he'd rooted out the remaining Blake Association members. He did quite a job—there were even guys at the FBI who he exposed. I've spent the last four weeks checking up on the case, making sure all the loose ends were tied up. And I agree with him. You guys can come back."

Lisbon hugged Cho again and gave Jane's hand a squeeze. After her initial excitement had worn down, she examined Cho's face again, noting there was something there she couldn't quite read.

She shot a glance at Jane, whose expression told her he'd seen the same thing.

"Why don't we sit down," said Lisbon, gesturing for Cho to sit on the couch, where she joined him. Jane sat across from them on the piano bench. "You got some more news for us, Cho?"

"I do," he said, and in typical Cho fashion, he skipped any additional niceties. "Here's the thing. Abbott just got promoted for his work on the Red John case. He's putting together a team in Austin, Texas, and he really wants a diverse set of skills. I'm already on board, as are Van Pelt and Rigsby—though they want the amount of field work they undertake to be limited."

"Grace is pregnant?" asked Lisbon incredulously.

Cho's expression gave nothing and everything away.

Lisbon smiled and made a mental note to call and congratulate her friends as soon as she landed in the States.

Cho continued. "Abbott wants at least two more people on his team, possibly more. He's really hoping to put together an experienced group."

Lisbon looked at Jane, wondering how she could possibly refuse the offer. "I've always wanted to visit Austin," Jane said.

"Before you decide," said Cho, clasping his hands together and leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees, "Abbott wants you both to work a case with us—you know, make sure you like the dynamic. The FBI does things a little differently than we did in California."

Lisbon's eyes narrowed, knowing Cho was withholding something.

"Spit it out, Cho," she said.

Cho looked from Lisbon to Jane, impressed. "You been giving her lessons or something?" he asked.

Jane grinned. "Something like that."

Cho shook his head in disbelief, and his face because solemn. "Listen, Lisbon. This case that Abbott wants you to work…it's far more important than merely seeing if the team is a good fit for you."

Despite the heat of the day, a chill spread throughout Lisbon, settling deep in her bones.

"What is it, Cho?"

"We were given a cold case from Chicago," he began. Out of the corner of her eye, Lisbon watched Jane as he stood up and walked towards her. He stood behind her, his body warm at her back and his presence soothing. "Though the case—a reported suicide of a Chicago fireman—was investigated thirty years ago when the incident first occurred, new evidence has caused the FBI to reopen the file. The evidence says the suicide was staged—meaning the firefighter was murdered."

Lisbon tensed. Jane's hand rested on her shoulder, and his touch gave her the strength to get out her next words.

"Who's file is this? Whose death would we be investigating?"

Cho looked from Lisbon to Jane, who must have showed some sign of encouragement, and back to Lisbon. Lisbon had seen this look on Cho before.

It was the look he wore when talking with victims' families.

Lisbon placed her hand on top of Jane's. Cho cleared his throat and spoke.

"Your father's."

* * *

**AN: So before anyone gets too upset about that ending...**

**Before I began writing _When I Fall_, I knew the direction I wanted to take with its sequel. So though this ending may seem like an unnecessary cliff-hanger, my real intention was for it to be a promise to you, dear reader: I will continue writing.**

**I won't leave things how they are now. I will resolve Jane and Lisbon's return to the US, and we'll get to see how she handles the case that Cho mentioned. I promise I will share that story with you - though it might not get written until summer begins, it will get written!**

**Until then, I have a list of oneshots to write (feel free to add to that list with some prompts, by the way). So I'm planning on sticking around, and I hope you will too.**

**Thanks again for being the best fandom ever.**

**~Hope**


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